


The Earth is Not a Cold Dead Place

by Lila82



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-23
Updated: 2014-10-11
Packaged: 2018-02-14 10:06:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2187678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lila82/pseuds/Lila82
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke makes it back from Mount Weather; Bellamy and Finn are waiting for her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Six Days at the Bottom of the Ocean

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I changed the title. The story was originally designed as three separate parts, but I realized it flows better as chapters. Apologies for any confusion.

 

* * *

 

Clarke dreams in colors.

There’s the blank gray of the Ark, the drab walls and washed out faces, shadowed eyes and gaunt cheeks peering through hazy light.

Earth is the deep blue of the water and the lush greens of the leaves, the rich brown of the soil beneath her boots. 

She holds tight to the laughing warmth of Finn’s eyes, the sparks of gold fanning through his irises, how they darkened as he held her in his arms.

Her new world is white, bright light bouncing off white walls and white skin, light so brilliant it hurts her eyes, but she knows better than to keep them closed. 

When she closes her eyes it’s that night, red and black, a brilliant, burning red pressing against her eyelids, a gaping black emptiness where her heart used to be. 

She really tries not to think about that night. 

 

* * *

 

Sometimes she wakes up screaming.

She remembers charred bones and skin burned to ash, the lingering heat of the fire clinging in the air. 

She feels Anya watching her with haunted eyes, the blank stares of her people taking in the destruction they'd caused – being alive shouldn’t have come at such a high price. 

Mostly, she sees Finn’s face just as she killed him dead.

 

* * *

 

Monty helps. 

Clarke’s given up trying to read his lips, but she finds comfort in his gentle smiles.

They can communicate a bit, just rudimentary ASL they studied in Earth Skills, but it’s enough. Clarke learns that Monty’s been here a week, that she appeared on the fourth day, that she gets three square meals and a warm blanket. 

He makes a motion like he’s rubbing his head and she realizes he’s pantomiming a shower. She glances down at her pristine white clothes, notes the easy way her fingers comb through her hair. She smiles, just the tiniest bit, because she really can’t complain about being clean. She almost can’t remember what it’s like. 

Monty smiles back, that calm, easy smile that always makes it seem like everything will be okay.

Clarke shifts her gaze to the quarantine sign, feels something harden inside her. 

Everything has gone wrong, but it doesn’t mean she’s ready to give up.

 

* * *

 

The woman appears the next day. 

She introduces herself as Jordan, slides gracefully into a chair and indicates that Clarke should take the other. “I’m hoping we can chat.”

Clarke watches suspiciously as she takes a seat. An orderly had brought the chairs in with her breakfast and she’d eyed them all morning: the hard plastic seats, the smooth metal legs. Mostly, she’d kept her gaze pinned straight ahead to keep away from all that white. 

“It’s real, you know,” Jordan tells her, turns in her seat to study the painting. “A lucky acquisition.”

Clarke shifts her eyes away from the bright wash of colors, the glowing moon and shining stars. It reminds her so much of the life she built; it reminds her too much of the life she’s lost.

Instead, she crosses her arms over her chest. “I feel a kinship with it.”

“How so?” Jordan’s holding a clipboard in her lap, balanced on one slim knee, and she’s poised to take notes.

Clarke makes her first statement count. “Van Gogh painted it from a mental asylum.” She meets Jordan’s gaze. “I know what it’s like to be trapped.”

Jordan jots something on her clipboard, but there’s amusement lurking in her eyes when she raises her head. “Let’s talk about that. You’re not a prisoner here.”

“Really?” Clarke gestures around the room, the bolted door and the camera tracking her every move. “I’ve been locked up before. This is pretty much standard procedure.”

“You’re not a prisoner,” Jordan repeats. “But we did have to take precautions. Other…visitors…haven’t been so cooperative.”

“You mean Grounders.” Bellamy’s words ring in her head, _the enemy of my enemy is my friend_. She glances at the camera again. It’s getting harder to remember why they ever fought that war.

Jordan looks at the clipboard. “Ah, yes. That’s what you call them. They’re important to our work, whether they understand it or not. We’re hoping you’ll be more willing, Clarke.”

“How do you know my name?” Clarke asks, fights to keep her voice from shaking. Just when she thought she had the upper hand, they threw her a curveball.

Jordan’s expression remains neutral, but Clarke recognizes the gleam of triumph in her eyes. “We know everything about you.” She stands and slides her clipboard under one arm. “That’s enough for today. I’ll come by tomorrow. We’ll talk more.”

She’s gone before Clarke can react and the clang of the closing door fills the room, echoes off the white walls and burrows its way into her head. 

The Grounders are all around them and Bellamy is fighting, _dying_ out there, and she’s closing the doors and locking her people in, keeping her people out. 

The screaming starts again. 

 

* * *

 

“Tell me about yourself,” Jordan asks the next morning. 

Clarke glares at her. “What do you want to know?”

“Anything, everything. Whatever you’d like to share.”

Clarke leans back in her chair and crosses her ankles. “You already know everything about me.”

“Yes, but I’d rather hear your version of events. Why don’t we start with your name?”

“My name is Clarke.”

“It’s not a typical female name,” Jordan reminds her. “How did it come to be yours?”

Clarke stares at her for a long while. Giving in feels like a betrayal, but it beckons too. Her parents are dead along with everyone else she’s ever loved, but this is the girl they know. This is the girl she was then and she misses that girl.

“My grandfather,” she finally says. “I was named for my grandfather. They added the “e” because I’m a girl. When you’re only allowed one child, you take what you can get.”

“And what do you think of that policy?”

It makes her think of the Ark and its laws, her dad floating through space, the cold seeping through his skin as the air was sucked from his lungs. She finds her voice, remembers why she was sent to the ground in the first place. She’s not trading in one set of rules for another. “I think I’m done answering your questions.”

Jordan ducks her head to make a note on her clipboard, but can’t quite hide her frown.

For the first time in over a week, Clarke truly smiles.

 

* * *

 

“I want to know about my friends.” Clarke demands an answer the moment Jordan sits down. She feels more confident, more in control. Jordan has the knowledge, but she has the power. Whatever they want, they can’t make her tell.

Jordan nods. “Of course.” She glances at the clipboard. “We have sixty-four patients at our facility.” She scans her notes while Clarke does the math, sucks in a deep, painful breath. _Thirty-six_ graves she might as well have dug herself. 

“Patients, ha!” Clarke manages to say. She’s clean and fed, but it’s not like she can leave. Patient is just a kinder word for prisoner. 

Jordan smiles serenely. “Yes, patients. One of your people had a bullet in her spine.” The corners of Jordan’s mouth tighten. “We’re not monsters, Clarke.”

Clarke winces, hates how easily Jordan says her name; it’s not like she volunteered the information herself. Still, the words linger: _had_ a bullet in her spine…“Raven,” she says. “She’s okay?”

“She isn’t walking yet, but yes, she’ll live.” Jordan looks at her knowingly, nearly cocks an eyebrow while she waits. She gave Clarke what she wanted; she expects something in return. 

Clarke sighs, does her best not to slump in her seat. “What do you want to know?”

Jordan smiles, all calm serenity, but she can’t hide the reptilian triumph gleaming in her eyes.

 

* * *

 

Time trickles by, but Clarke doesn’t lose it all together.

She picks at a cuticle, watches the blood bead thick and dark and pulsing against her white skin. She wipes it on the wall in a neat line, keeps adding marks and counts the days. 

She’s escaped her cage before. It’s only a matter of time. 

 

* * *

 

Jordan brings her a pencil on the fifth day.

It’s charcoal, with a round point that’s prone to breakage, and Clarke has to physically keep her fingers from reaching for it. 

She knows it’s a bribe, clear as the river the first time she saw water on earth, but it’s still a pencil. She glances at the painting, the thick brushstrokes and layers of color. The girl she once was can’t turn that down. She holds it in her hand, tests its thin weight. She’s lost so much; she doesn’t want to give this up too.

In her first life, she drew the earth in her cell, mountains and rivers and valleys she only knew from books. Back then she didn’t know how smooth water could feel as it rushed over her fingers, or the cool dampness of soil clinging to her toes. She didn’t know that a sunset could take her breath away or the how the smell right after the rain could make the world feel fresh and new and full of promise. 

She draws the camp in the way she wants to remember it, with makeshift tents and ramshackle walls and the mighty dropship lording over it all. She adds Octavia and her sword and Raven tinkering with the radio, Miller standing guard with his beanie pulled down low. Jasper jokes with Monty by the fire while Wells watches from above. A knot lodges in her throat as she smiles up at his familiar face. She hopes it’s better wherever he is. 

She doesn’t draw the tangled mess of Bellamy’s hair or the laughter in Finn’s eyes. She doesn’t need another reminder of all she’s lost.

 

* * *

 

Jordan’s eyes sweep over the mural. “I see you accepted my gift.”

Clarke flexes her fingers. “I got tired of making myself bleed.” She tilts her head towards her makeshift calendar. “My system wasn’t exactly sanitary.”

“Well, consider it a birthday present.” She pauses, then presses forward when Clarke doesn’t respond. “Yesterday. It was your eighteenth birthday.”

Clarke stares at her, fights to keep her expression blank as everything twists and turns inside her, but then a peal of laughter bubbles up, dark and shrieking as it bursts from her chest. 

Jordan pauses in her scribbling. “What’s so funny?”

Clarke takes a calming breath and closes her eyes, wishes there weren’t tears lurking in them when she stares Jordan down. “I should have died yesterday. If I was still on the Ark, I’d spend today floating through space.” She flicks her eyes around the room before turning them back to Jordan. “I’m eighteen and I’m not dead and look where I am.”

“You’re alive,” Jordan reminds her. 

Clarke just shakes her head. She might be living but she couldn’t feel further from alive.

 

* * *

 

“Let’s talk about Bellamy.”

Jordan’s words hit her like a slap and it’s all she can do not to visibly recoil. “He’s dead,” Clarke says softly. It’s the first time she’s said the words aloud and they hang in the air, close in around her. 

“I’m sorry for your loss.” Jordan watches her with warm, brown eyes that crinkle at the corners just like Finn’s. Clarke turns her gaze to the floor. She doesn’t deserve even Jordan’s sympathy, not after the choices she’s made. “I’d like to know what he was like when he was alive. I’m hoping you’ll tell me about him.”

Clarke raises her head, feels the flare of heat behind her eyes. “Don’t talk about Bellamy.”

Jordan just presses on. “He’s an interesting choice for a leader. Most people who attempt to assassinate their Chancellor don’t end up in charge.”

“He was protecting his sister,” Clarke spits out. She doesn’t mean to, doesn’t want these people to take anything more from her, but she can’t help but defend him. She can’t forget the night by the bunker, the moment she realized she could never hate him as much as he already hated himself. 

“Still, an odd choice. Finn Collins would have been the more logical candidate.” 

Another shard sinks its way into Clarke’s heart and she wonders if she’s being tested, if Jordan brings up their names only to gauge her reaction, to see how far she has to push before she takes what Clarke won’t give. “You don’t know Bellamy.”

“So tell me about him.”

There are many things Clarke could say. She could tell Jordan that he’s arrogant and reckless, that he thinks with his heart rather than his head. She could explain how he’s handsome and charming, uncompromising and determined. She could talk about the early days, Murphy and knife fights and “whatever the hell we want.” She could bring up Octavia, the soul-shattering bond of love and guilt and hate and devotion that she still can’t quite understand. There are so many things she could say, and when she finally opens her mouth, it’s the most personal truth that comes out. “I couldn’t have done it without him.”

Jordan makes a note on her clipboard. Clarke wonders how she’s still going on without him.

 

* * *

 

Clarke’s been awake two weeks when Jordan slips up.

“So you’re a Die Mannschaft fan, ja?” she asks, eyes shining with amusement. 

Clarke’s head snaps up. Jordan’s questions have been obvious, facts and details she could have gleaned from any number of other _patients_. Even her birthday was revealed during Unity Day drinking games. Soccer is personal. Football is between her father and Wells and Thelonious and twenty-three Germans who’ve been dead almost two centuries. “How did you know that?” she hisses.

Jordan barely glances up. “Hmmn? You mentioned it the other day.” 

“No, I didn’t.” There’s no room for argument in her tone. Clarke knows she’s got them, knows she can take what they refuse to give. “I’ll ask the question again: how do you know that?”

Jordan’s eyes flicker to the camera in the corner, and she casually crosses her legs but her foot can’t seem to stop shaking. “Clarke,” she tries, but there’s a tremor in her voice. “Please don’t do this.”

Clarke pushes out of her chair and paces, keeps her eyes trained on the camera as she circles the bright, white room. It feels a bit like the night she and Bellamy came back with the guns, came back with a smile on her face because they so rarely had the advantage.

Clarke scrapes her chair across the floor and drops into it. She’s only inches from Jordan. “You’ve had it your way all this time. Now it’s going to be mine.”

Jordan swallows thickly. “What do you want to know?”

“I’ll ask my question a third time: how did you know that about me?”

Her eyes never shift from the camera and it’s a long time before Jordan starts to talk. “We’re scientists,” she finally says. “The earth is our laboratory. We monitor everything here.” She pauses. “We monitored you too.”

“How?”

She gestures at the camera. “Our technology has only grown in the years since the war and our computers were tapped into yours. We knew your lives better than our own.”

“You spied on us.” It’s only anger swelling in Clarke’s chest. The Ark was a world of watchful stares, and even when she fell from the sky, the band on her wrist kept her from fully reaching the earth. She wonders if she’ll ever live a life free from prying eyes. 

“We watched,” Jordan clarifies. “We had to know what was coming if you ever made it to the ground.”

It takes Clarke a moment to figure it out, read between the lines of the story Jordan isn’t telling. “You knew,” she whispers. “You _knew_ ,” she repeats, louder this time as all the pieces fall into place. “You knew about the Culling, about every Culling, and you didn’t do anything! You knew we were going to die and you never bothered to stop it!” 

She doesn’t wipe away the tears leaking from her eyes. She wants Jordan to see, for them all to see, just how much damage they’ve done. She remembers the things she’s seen, the spear in Jasper’s chest and the poison in Finn’s blood and the perfect symmetry of the throwing blade as it split Drew’s face. Her stomach turns as she stares at Jordan’s stricken expression. “How could you stand by and watch so much suffering?”

“It’s not our job to interfere. We watch and we learn so it doesn't happen again.” 

Jordan looks like she’s about to cry, but it only makes Clarke see red, a different type of red, blazing and pulsing and bright as the tears in her mother’s eyes when she admitted the truth about her father. She springs from her chair with her fists clenched, her chest heaving with the effort to keep from screaming. “Get out.”

“Clarke…” Jordan tries, but Clarke just shakes her head, grips the back of her chair to keep her fists from slamming into Jordan’s face. 

“Go,” she says softly, hears Bellamy’s voice the morning after the storm. “Please don’t make me into someone I don’t want to be.”

Jordan doesn’t protest, just gathers her things and exits the room. It’s quiet when she’s gone, just the low buzz of the camera and Clarke’s own thoughts for company.

She lays on her bed and stares at the mural, the smiling, frozen faces of the people she’s failed. 

She closes her eyes and it’s Bellamy’s bloody cheeks and Finn’s panicked eyes and the scattered bones that used to be whole.

Her forehead slams into the wall and the entire world is mercifully black. 

 

* * *

 

When she opens her eyes there’s a bandage on her head and a middle-aged man in a lab coat is checking her pulse.

“Welcome back, Ms. Griffin,” he says and gently lowers her arm to the mattress. “I’m Dr. Saar.”

She nods, and immediately regrets it. She might have found a temporary peace, but it did a number on her head. Dr. Saar’s eyes are kind, but Clarke knows how easy it is to play a part. Her mother, Finn, Murphy, Jordan...she forces a smile and takes on the role of a lifetime.

“How long have I been out?”

“A couple days,” Saar says and makes a note on her chart. “How are you feeling?”

She feels lousy and her head is pounding, but there’s a fire in her belly that didn’t used to be there. She’s had time to think, to dream and plan, and she knows what she needs to do. It’s Bellamy urging her on, reminding her to stay and fight. She’s played nice long enough.

She forces herself into a sitting position and stares right into the doctor’s wary eyes. She smiles, and it’s all teeth and dare. “I feel alive.”

 

* * *

 

“I want to go outside,” she tells Dr. Saar when he comes to check her bandages. It’s been two days and the headache has diminished as the bruise fades from deep purple to a sickly green. 

“Why?”

She gestures to herself, lying prone in the bed. “Bed sores would be a bitch.”

Saar nods. “We have a lovely indoor track.”

“I haven’t seen the sun in over a month.” She’s careful to annunciate her words. “I want to go outside.”

He drops his hands and takes a step back. “You’re still recovering from a head injury, Clarke. A nice, easy walk will do just fine.”

She doesn’t back down. “Fresh air will be even better.”

“Not this time.”

He starts for the door and Clarke hates herself a little for the desperation in her voice, but there’s no other way. She can lose this battle so long as she ultimately wins the war. “I’ll answer your questions,” she says. “One question for one hour outside.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

And so it begins.

 

* * *

 

Clarke gets her walks and Dr. Saar gets his answers.

She tells him about the camp and the life her people carved out for themselves. She tells him about the seaweed and the giant snake and the deer with two heads and the jobi nuts. She tells him Jasper and the spear and Raven and the radio and even Monty and the bracelets. She tells him about Wells and she tells him about Charlotte, about their mistakes with Murphy and the price they paid in full. She tells him that against all odds, one of their own fell in love with a Grounder.

Mostly she notes the sturdiness of the trees and the height of the walls. She memorizes the guard rotations and the angles of the cameras. She counts her steps and practices even breaths. 

She prepares herself to fight.

 

* * *

 

It’s hard telling Monty goodbye. 

She presses her hand to the glass and smiles at him, hopes he can see the words she’s smudged in charcoal.

“May we meet again,” she mouths, just to be clear and he smiles, broad and wide and full of hope, and mouths the words back.

His head bobs for a moment and his hands move in rapid motions before the window. “Don’t forget about us.”

She shakes her head, ignores the tears threatening to fall. She hopes he understands. 

She might be gone, but she’s not leaving her people behind. She’s setting them free.

 

* * *

 

Her plan has three steps:  
1\. Knock out Dr. Saar  
2\. Scale the wall  
3\. Run for the hills (literally)

It scares her thinking about how much she’s looking forward to the first part. 

She trails behind Saar just a bit, picks up the piece of concrete while she rambles on about Harper and her crush on Jasper. She spotted it the day before under a large tree, a jagged chunk of the wall that didn’t quite survive a storm. It’s not overly big, but the edges are rough and she only needs a minute, just one minute, to set her plan in motion.

She tugs up the sleeve of her parka and sucks in a breath – she’s a healer, her life dedicated to putting people back together — but now she needs the strength to tear one apart. 

And then, the alarm, loud and bleating in the small courtyard. Her arm drops, the weapon falling to the ground behind her.

“Wait here,” Saar tells her as the alarm rings shrilly. He gestures to the guard by the door and he disappears into the building. But the guard is young, the way she’d hoped he would be, and his eyes desperately flit between the patient and the prize. Clarke hides her smile. She remembers the early days, so many teenage boys nearly slicing off their fingers to impress a girl. 

“It’s okay,” she tells him, bats her eyes and tugs on her braid. “I’ll just wait here.” In all her layers and with her hair pulled back, she looks about fourteen.

He stares at her as the alarm only gets louder. “I’ll be back in one minute.”

“Of course.”

Clarke waits for the clang of the slamming door before bolting for the wall. It’s high, but she’s had time to plan, uses one of the broken branches as a boost and then there’s only wide, open space.

She looks left and looks right, but the alarm is still blaring and no one’s coming for her. She closes her eyes and tries to remember that first day, Octavia cheering and Bellamy barking orders, but mostly the map that was supposed to save them. She might know the truth about Mount Weather, but it’s still intrinsic to her survival. “Think, Clarke,” she murmurs, crouched in the shadow of the wall. 

She stands and aims south, but then she hears the familiar click of a rifle cocking and her heart drops into her stomach. She’s come too far to fail now. 

Except there’s something familiar about the figure moving towards her, the dark hair curling around his ears and the broad expanse of his shoulders. She blinks, because it can’t be real, _he_ can’t be real. She watched the door close; she knows the choice she made.

“Clarke?” he says and her eyes widen because she really, truly knows that voice. It’s deep and commanding, but there’s vulnerability too, especially as he lowers the rifle and stares at her with equally wide eyes.

“Bellamy,” she whispers and she says it again, louder this time, and then she’s running the short distance and throwing herself against him and he’s warm and solid and his arms are strong as they wrap around her and she doesn’t even care that he’s seeing her cry because he’s alive. Bellamy is _alive_.

“I still need to breathe,” he reminds her and she loosens her grip, but doesn’t let go. Her hands press along the muscles of his back, trail across his shoulders and the nape of his neck. He sucks in a breath as her fingers tangle in his hair and his heart skips against hers. “You done copping a feel?”

“I thought you were dead.” 

He smiles, that smirking, shit-eating grin she knows so well, and reaches down to rub the tears from her skin. “Well, I’m not.”

“Yeah,” she says and rests her cheek against his chest, closes her eyes as his heartbeat settles into a gentle, even rhythm.

“Yeah,” he murmurs into her hair.

“Success!” another voice interrupts and Clarke jerks her head up, takes in floppy dark hair and flashing dark eyes, and Bellamy’s heartbeat jumps as Finn steps into view. 

“Oh my god, Finn!” she says as Bellamy releases her, as another set of arms wrap around her and spin her in circles. 

He finally stops and stands before her, cupping her face in his hands as he stares into her eyes. “I promised you wouldn’t lose me again.” His voice is soft and his mouth is too, as he leans in and presses it against hers. He pulls back and smiles down at her. “I’m so glad we found you.” 

Clarke smiles, glances over his shoulder and loses herself just a bit in Bellamy’s eyes. They’re hard, but proud, and yet unreadable. He looks away as Finn takes her hand. “We need to get a move on. We’ll explain everything on the way.

Clarke casts one last glance at her prison, the high white walls and gleaming gates. The alarm is still sounding and they don’t have much time. “Let’s get out of here,” she says and follows behind, Bellamy’s eyes on her back as he brings up the rear.

She lets go of Finn’s hand. She doesn’t need him to save her.


	2. First Breath After the Coma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke makes it back from Mount Weather; Bellamy and Finn are waiting for her.

 

* * *

 

They trek through the darkening forest to the fading blare of the alarm. 

It’s nearly winter and there’s a thin layer of dried leaves covering the forest floor. Their steps are careful and well chosen; the Grounders have been neutralized, but there are still threats lurking in these woods.

They form a single file line and Clarke walks between them. She keeps her eyes trained on Finn, takes in the lean planes of his back and the dark hair flopping over his collar. It’s longer than she remembers and he looks stronger, shoulders bunching as he holds up a hand to halt their progress.

He looks the same, but different, especially with the rifle swinging against his hip. It’s hard to believe the boy who always cried for peace is willingly carrying a gun. Clarke swallows hard – she’s not the only one who’s changed.

“What is it?” Bellamy asks quietly, his deep voice no louder than the wind gently rustling the leaves. Clarke looks at him sharply. He’s always been all bombast and bluster. She’s not used to seeing him playing the part of the dutiful foot soldier. 

Finn tilts his head to the left. “There’s something in the trees up ahead.” He shoulders his rifle. “Hopefully, it’s nothing but it could be something.”

Bellamy nods. “Lead the way.” 

Clarke is suddenly aware of the imperfections in her plan. She has no weapon and worse, she might be warm but her parka is the same bright, brilliant white of her prison. She might has well have painted a target on her forehead. But Bellamy takes a step forward, and then another, steps in front of Clarke so all she can see is the broad expanse of his shoulders blocking out the light. “Don’t push, Princess,” he says. “It’s not personal, but you can’t defend yourself.” 

She isn’t expecting it, but the nickname takes her aback. She remembers the early days, when the condescension dripping from Bellamy’s tongue would make her want to punch the smug look right off his face. When he says it now, it feels warm and familiar and something like home. It makes her laugh, finding comfort in the very term that used to drive her to distraction; it feels like an embrace. She doesn’t want to be the one that gives away their position so she buries her giggle between Bellamy’s shoulder blades, rests her nose against the worn fabric of his jacket. 

He stiffens slightly, but doesn’t shy away, just shifts his hips a bit to keep the rifle clear. Finn watches with a frown, eyes darting from the enemy ahead to the girl behind. His jaw tightens. “Let’s do this,” he says flatly and takes a cautious step forward. 

Clarke holds tight to Bellamy, lets him lead her through the fray.

 

* * *

 

It’s a bird with wings of spun gold that glitter in the fading light. 

Finn rolls his eyes and Bellamy chuckles, but Clarke can’t stop staring. She’s forgotten the mysteries this world holds, the humble beauty in simply being alive. “Wow,” she breathes and it hits her like a sucker punch: she’s really, truly free. Her world is no longer white walls and pale skin and a distorted version of the night sky. 

The real thing is so many colors, red and gold and inky purple as the sun sinks behind the hills. She drops her elbows to her knees and hunches over as she takes deep, gulping breaths. She’s forgotten that there’s air like this, the crisp sweetness of the night breeze seeping into her lungs. 

“Clarke?” Finn grasps her elbow, watches her with worried eyes. “Are you okay?”

She glances up at him, watches the sun make its final descent. The world is blanketed in black, but the gaping darkness isn’t there. 

She straightens, gets back in line. “Yeah,” she says. “I think I’m gonna be okay.”

 

* * *

 

They make camp soon after. Finn sets up the food while Bellamy starts a fire. Clarke watches him, the neat movements of long, tapered fingers as he strikes the match and blows softly to help the kindling spark. She knows him as the man in charge, always an underling to haul water or turn the spit. She likes this side of him, the leader who also knows how to be a team player.

Finn grins and hands her a carved wooden plate. “Dinner is served.”

Clarke looks at her meal. There’s some kind of mixture of dried meat and berries mashed together in a squishy log. She pokes at it a bit, unsure of what they’re feeding her.

“Relax, Princess,” Bellamy says. “It’s just pemmican.” He takes a hearty bite and downs half his bar, amusement dancing in his eyes.

Clarke has never been able to back down from a challenge, especially one issued by Bellamy Blake, so she gingerly picks up her food and takes a bite. It’s sweet and salty at the same time, an usual texture, but not unappealing. “Where did you come up with this?”

Bellamy and Finn exchange a glance. “We’ve made some…improvements since we last saw you,” Finn explains. “Do you want to tell us about it?” They watch her with matching dark eyes, knees drawn to their chests and arms neatly crossed. 

Clarke sets aside her food, her appetite suddenly gone. Three hundred twenty bodies float through her mind like glittering stars. She doesn’t want to remember why they’re dead. “Can we talk about it later?”

Bellamy accepts her answer, but Finn keeps pushing. “What about the others? Did you see them?” 

Both boys wait expectantly and she tries her best to explain. “I saw Monty and they told me that Raven’s going to be okay.” Finn lets out a sigh of relief and Clarke feels it too, finally delivering good news. 

“Anyone else?”

And just like that, the conversation takes a turn. “There were sixty-four of us at Mount Weather.” 

Across the fire Bellamy watches her with haunted eyes. “Thirty-six graves,” he whispers and it’s that night all over again, the frantic pounding of the drums and the rhythmic click of rifles taking aim. No matter which choice they made, it was the wrong one. 

“You left them there?” It’s not an accusation per se, but Finn’s question echoes through the clearing all the same, bouncing off trees and catching in the leaves. Bellamy’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t say anything, and Clarke thinks she sees understanding in those dark eyes. She’s not the only one to leave her people behind.

“I couldn’t save everyone,” Clarke says, forces the words past the guilt knotting in her chest. “I thought if I could get out, I could go back and save them.” She turns her eyes to the star filled sky. “I saw the Ark fall. I had to hope that there were survivors.”

“Clarke…” Finn’s eyes are warm when she meets his gaze. “There were survivors. Your mom…she’s here.”

It takes a moment for the words to process, to sink through the layers of tissue and membrane and register fully in the deep depths of her brain. She saw the wreckage, saw what was left of an exodus from the Ark. But she saw the dropship doors close too, saw the bodies when the doors opened, and Bellamy and Finn are here. They’re alive, and they’re both watching her with worried, dark eyes. “My mom?” she manages to say. “But how?”

“Long story,” Finn explains. “We’re hazy on the details, but Diana Sydney launched some kind of coup. The chancellor died, but your mom made it.”

“Oh my god,” she says and the world spins a little, its axis off kilter from this news she wanted but never really thought she'd hear. She reaches for something to steady herself, expecting the ground, but long, tapered fingers wrap around her wrist and hold her steady. 

“You’re okay,” Bellamy says softly, tugs her into a sitting position and presses lightly on her back. “Just breathe.”

All she can see is the dirt and bits of brown leaves kicked up by their boots, but she concentrates on the low, steady hum of Bellamy’s voice and his fingers smoothing gentle circles across her back. When she raises her eyes, Finn is watching them and Bellamy must notice too, because he drops his hand and throws another stick on the fire.

“Is that how you found me?” Clarke asks when she's caught her breath. Finn relaxes a bit, but Bellamy just stares intently at the fire. “You were working with the Ark to bring back the rest of us?” They exchange a look, just a couple seconds long, but it’s enough for Clarke to notice. “What?”

Bellamy finally looks up. “We were on a recon run. We knew you were being held at Mount Weather, but we didn’t know much else. We set off the alarm to test their defenses.” He smiles, just a quick flash of teeth, and ducks his head as he continues. “You were an added bonus.”

That smile is infectious and Clarke smiles in return. “I’m glad it all worked out.”

Finn reaches over and lays his hand over hers, and she relaxes even more. “We are too.”

Clarke turns her attention back to the conversation. “So what’s the plan?” 

Again, the boys exchange a look but, this time it’s laced with tension. “The Council voted to scout the facility in preparation for an attack.” Finn’s voice is flat as he defends his position. “I thought we should try negotiations, but I was out voted.”

“They have our people.” Bellamy’s voice isn’t loud, but there’s no mistaking the sharpness in his tone. “We don’t have a choice.”

“There’s always a choice,” Finn snaps back and Clarke's eyes shift between them, watches the fragile threads of their alliance unravel. There’s no friendship lost between them, just two reluctant partners working towards a common cause. 

“So we have a Council?” she asks, because she’s curious, but mostly to diffuse the tension. They’re back in the dropship and one side wants to run and the other wants to fight and she doesn’t want to have to choose. 

“For now,” Finn explains. “Just until we have time to sort things out.”

Bellamy pushes to his feet and straps his rifle across his chest. “Some things never change. I’ll take first watch, let spacewalker fill you in.”

Finn takes her hand again, eyes soft in the moonlight. “You know how he gets.” 

Over his shoulder, she watches the retreating line of Bellamy’s back. She’s glad some things have stayed the same.

 

* * *

 

It’s easy with Finn.

“Hey,” he whispers, brushes her hair from her face and smiles.

“Hi.”

He reaches over and tugs on her braid. “This is a new look.”

“I wore it like this on the Ark,” she says, twists the plait around her fingers. “I realized it wasn’t very practical escaping a prison with my hair all over the place.”

He smiles wider, tips up her jaw. “I like it.” His mouth is still soft, but the kiss is rougher, and he presses on her chin so she opens her mouth and his tongue can slip inside. His hands are warm as they slide over her neck, diving a bit into the unzipped parka. “I’ve missed you.”

She’s missed him too, so much that it made her scream herself to sleep. She remembers the field of the dead, the bones and ash and the way her heart shriveled into a tiny ball in her chest. It’s too much too soon, the heat that spreads through her from his bare skin on hers, the way his sheepish smile makes her want to cry. She just needs this reminder that he’s alive. 

She pulls back, rests her forehead against his. “Hold me,” she whispers as he wraps her in his arms.

“I’m not letting you go again,” he says into her hair and she burrows her head into the curve of his shoulder.

 

* * *

 

Clarke wakes to the sound of rattling bones. 

The fire has died down to a pale glow and the trees are dark and looming, casting eerie shadows through the clearing. She’s relatively warm, bundled into the depths of her oversized parka, but Bellamy is not.

Across the fire he’s curled into himself wearing nothing more than his Ark-issued jacket. The wind is cool and he shivers with each gust, elbows and hips and ankles shaking against the hard ground. 

“Bellamy,” she whispers, careful not to startle him. His rifle is within arms length and they’re in enemy territory. She escaped one hell without him sending her to another. 

He jerks awake and glares up at her. “Need something, Princess?”

His voice is hard, but she recognizes the teasing tone and she nudges him with her boot. “I can’t sleep.”

“Not my problem.”

“You won’t stop shivering,” she points out as another gust of wind blows through the camp and he trembles against the cold. “It’s keeping me awake.” She nudges him again. “Roll over.” He doesn’t move at first, but then she raises her eyebrows and puts more pressure on his hip and he finally turns on his side. 

He’s quiet as she curls into the stiff line of his spine and spreads her parka over both of them. He shivers again as she presses her hands between them. “Your hands are freezing.”

“I was in prison for the past six weeks,” she reminds him. “Gloves were a low-priority.”

He laughs, a low rumble that reverberates against her breasts and sends a warm flush over her cheeks. “And yet did nothing to dull that sharp tongue.”

There’s a retort on the tip of that tongue, but it dies in her throat when Bellamy rolls so he’s facing her and tucks her hands into the open collar of his t-shirt. His skin is soft, his muscles hard, and Clarke is so very grateful for the darkness hiding her blush. 

He takes her hands in one of his and Clarke thinks back to the hunt for Jasper, the ground falling out from beneath her and Bellamy throwing her a lifeline. She didn’t like what she’d seen in his eyes that day, but they’re different now as he watches her in the moonlight. 

“Better?” He asks, voice low and rough, and Clarke swears she sees those eyes darken as she shifts just the tiniest bit closer.

“I am now.” 

He looks like he wants to say something, but he just shakes his head and closes his eyes. “Night, Clarke.”

Sleep comes easy to her as well. She’s better now and it has nothing to do with the cold.

 

* * *

 

They start for the Ark at first light.

Finn is mostly silent, the way he’s been since he turned up with breakfast and found her and Bellamy draped across each other.

“It was just about body heat," she told him when Bellamy disappeared to find water. “I’d have done the same for anyone.”

Finn had nodded and let the matter drop, but it didn’t ease the tension in his shoulders as he led the way down the mountain. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Bellamy asks after they’ve been walking an hour.

He’s so quiet that she doesn’t hear him come up, but then he’s there, tall and hard, almost touching her shoulder. Clarke sighs. “Nothing to talk about. I think he’s anxious to get back.”

“How are you feeling?”

Clarke glances up at the sky, a winter gray with drooping clouds, but the air is cool on her cheeks and there are no walls in sight. “I have to keep reminding myself that it’s real.”

“I’m glad your mom is okay.” 

“Thanks,” she says and means it, realizes he means his words too. He was there that night, and she remembers the hand he laid on her shoulder as she dropped to her knees and wept. 

“You ready for it?”

“For what?”

“Seeing your mom.”

“Of course,” she says stiffly and picks up the pace. Her mother is alive, but it’s still a raw, gaping wound. She’s not ready to rip it open yet.

“Clarke,” Bellamy says and grabs her shoulder. He’s not rough, but he’s determined, and he’s using her given name. She knows he won’t let up on this. “I was there at the bunker. You could run then, but you can’t now.”

She stares at the ground as tears well in her eyes. It only makes her angrier, more frustrated, because she’s cried so many tears over her mother already. “I don’t know how I feel,” she finally says. “It was a lot harder to hate her when she was dead.”

“I felt the same way about my mom,” Bellamy says and Clarke looks up sharply, only he isn’t staring at the ground. He’s looking right at her. “She never had a plan beyond having Octavia. We never talked about what would happen when she grew up, or when one of us got sick…when one of us died.” His voice drops even as his gaze remains steady. “I didn’t have a childhood. I was six-years-old when Octavia was born and protecting her is all I’ve ever known.” 

“And then your mom died.” 

“Yeah.”

“And you forgave her.”

Bellamy shrugs, drags a hand over his eyes. “How could I not when she gave me O?”

“I don’t have a sister,” she reminds him, blinks back the tears again.

He smiles at her and that hard ball that was her heart loosens up a bit. “You have a second chance. Make sure you take it.”

Clarke is dimly aware of the world around her, the trees and grass and sky that stole her breath just the night before, because all she sees is the way that smile lights up Bellamy’s face.

There’s a noise in the underbrush and Finn comes crashing through, rifle cocked and loaded. “Everything okay?”

Clarke blinks and Bellamy looks away and Finn’s forehead knots as he watches them. “Just needed a breather,” she tells him and Bellamy steps back, falls into formation.

“Wanna walk with me for a while?” Finn asks and Clarke is acutely aware of Bellamy watching their exchange, but also the hope in Finn’s eyes. 

“Sure,” she says, watches the joy bloom across his face. She falls into pace with him as they make their final descent.

She feels Bellamy’s eyes on her the rest of the way. She likes it.

 

* * *

 

Clarke sees Bellamy in every element of the camp.

He’s there in the walls and the tents and the work stations and the remnants of the Ark taking center stage. It’s both familiar and foreign, especially when two men in black beanies open the gate.

There are lots of excited yells when Bellamy and Finn walk into the yard and even more curious stares when the inhabitants realize that they brought someone with them. 

“Good luck,” Bellamy says as they approach the Ark and Clarke realizes it’s time. She’s free and her mom is here; she can’t run any longer.

“Wait!” Clarke says and grabs his arm. “I can’t do this.” He’s solid and strong beneath her fingers and she doesn’t want to let go. 

He stares down at her and it’s like they’re beneath that tree all over again, except she’s falling apart and he’s holding her together. “Buck up, Princess,” he says and peels her fingers from his forearm. “You survived six weeks in Mountain Men hell. You can make it through a conversation with your mom.” His eyes are soft though and she accepts his challenge even as she sees through the bluster. 

“Okay,” she says, drops her hand and straightens her shoulders.

“Okay,” he says and props his rifle over his own shoulder and walks away.

Finn waits patiently at her side but she notes the way his eyes follow Bellamy’s retreating form. “What’s going on?”

“I was there when Jaha pardoned him,” she explains. “Just returning the favor.” 

Finn takes her hand and Clarke feels the tension there. “You ready for this?” he asks.

She takes a deep breath and squeezes his hand. “Let’s do it.”

She holds tight to his fingers as they step into the ship, ignores the way they feel wrong in hers.

 

* * *

 

Clarke doesn’t remember much of the reunion with her mom.

She remembers seeing a sinewy frame and long, dark braid, but then her vision is blurred by the tears streaming from her eyes.

Her mother is thin – too thin – and she looks ten years older, but her eyes still light up as she takes in her daughter. “Hi Mom,” is all she says before her mother is wrapped around her, all arms and tears and a bright, watery smile.

“Oh, baby,” Abby whispers. “Thank god.”

Clarke hasn’t forgiven her, but her words were true before and when Bellamy said them now. She just buries her face in her mom’s neck and lets the tears fall. She still believes in second chances.

 

* * *

 

There’s a hearing later that afternoon.

The “Council” wants to know what happened, but mostly they want to know what she knows. Rescuing their people from Mount Weather remains the utmost priority, or so a young guard says as he escorts them to the council chamber.

Marcus Kane is at the table, along with three women and one man that she doesn’t recognize, but also Bellamy and Finn.

The meeting goes the way she expected it would: Kane asks question upon question about her confinement; Finn pushes for peace, Bellamy urges a war.

“She was able to escape on her own,” Bellamy argues. “We know how their defense system works. If we can get arms in to the hundred, they can fight their way out.”

“There’s only sixty-four of them left,” Finn points out. “How many more need to die? I say we keep negotiating.” 

“We tried that,” Bellamy pushes back. “We lost two men from Tesla station.”

“So we try again. We offer them something, make a trade.” 

“Our only currency is ourselves,” Clarke says, surprised by the steady, even cut of her voice. After weeks in isolation, so much noise is overwhelming, but she can still think clearly. She hears Jordan in her head, _“we watched and we learned…”_ She knows they’ll never let her people go, not without a steep price.

“Clarke?” Kane asks. All eyes land on her. “What do you mean?”

“You’re not listening to me. We’re an experiment. That’s all they want from us. They watch us and they study us and they make decisions about our lives.” She turns her gaze to Finn, wishes she had better news. “The only thing they want from us is more test subjects and that’s not a trade that I’m willing to make.”

A new voice cuts in. “We appreciate your input, but you’re not on the council.” It’s one of the male members, a former engineer from Mecha station, and he’s watching her with hard eyes. Clarke looks away. His son was one of those who didn’t make it into the dropship. “Leave the tough decisions to us.”

“She should be.” Bellamy crosses his arms over his chest and levels his gaze at each council member. “None of the hundred would have survived without her.” He catches her eye across the table. “ _I_ couldn’t have done it without her. She knows more about the Mountain Men than any of us. She deserves a seat at this table.”

“She’s a child,” the engineer argues, glares at Bellamy and then at Finn. “Two of them are more than enough.”

“I’m eighteen,” Clarke says in her own defense, hears the determination creep into her voice. She turns her gaze to her opponent. “I’m of age and I’ve been here all along. They’re my people. It’s my job to bring them home.” 

Everyone starts talking at once, Finn and the engineer and all three women, but Kane holds up a hand and Bellamy clears his throat. The room falls silent. “One of our members has raised a motion,” Kane says. “How do we vote?”

The vote passes and Bellamy is the first to shake her hand. “You didn’t have to do that,” she tells him.

He shrugs and sticks his hand in his pocket. “It didn’t feel right doing it without you.” 

His gaze darkens as Finn comes up and wraps her in a hug. “I’m glad that we’ll be doing this together.”

Bellamy walks off as the rest of the council arrives to congratulate their newest member, but Clarke keeps her eyes on him. 

There are no pins in this new world but Clarke still feels the burden of her people pressing down on her chest. She watches the way Bellamy stands straight and tall. If he can bear the weight, she can too.

 

* * *

 

She finds Finn by the fire. Dinner is some kind of stew with mystery meat but real vegetables, and Clarke swears that there’s herbs in there too. Whatever it is, it’s the best thing she’s eaten on earth.

She takes a seat next to him and puts down her bowl. “Hey you,” she says, nudges his shoulder with her own. 

He smiles and nudges her back. “Councilwoman.”

Clarke rolls her eyes. “Councilman.”

“Weird, right?” he asks her and she laughs, because it feels achingly _normal_ to joke around a campfire, like she’s just Clarke and he’s just Finn and they’re just two people on earth. 

“This is nice,” she tells him, rests her head on his shoulder as his arm wraps around her waist. 

She sees Bellamy out of the corner of her eye. It’s late, but he’s still prowling around the perimeter, keeping his eyes open and his people safe. “He doesn’t ease up, does he?” Clarke says and Finn sighs as he follows her gaze.

“What?” 

“He’s Bellamy,” Finn insists. “You know he’s not right without a war to fight.”

Clarke pulls back and his arm falls away. “He blames himself,” she points out. “Every death, he blames himself.”

Finn’s jaw tightens. “He wanted a fight.” The accusation surrounds them – Bellamy wasn’t the only one who wanted to stay.

“And what did you want?”

Finn’s eyes gleam in the firelight. “I wanted to see the ocean. I wanted to see it with you.” 

It’s a beautiful dream and Clarke feels the fight slip away. “One day,” she says and Finn smiles at her, ducks his head to kiss her softly. He wraps his arm over her shoulders and Clarke settles into him again, watches the play of the flames while the heat washes over her skin.

Bellamy settles across the clearing, their gazes catching across the fire. Clarke swears she sees the ocean reflected back in his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize that this update is later than anticipated. I did this thing where I watched the pilot of “Sons of Anarchy,” and then decided I’d watch a little more, and now, barely a week later, I’m mid-way through season three, mildly embarrassed, and annoyed that Netflix only has season 1-5. But I digress…it’s here and SAMCRO is on hold for a bit, and I’m relatively happy with how this part turned out. Still a bit plot-heavy, but such is the fate of this fic. I think this is where I also confess that while the pairings are technically a triangle, it’s quite clear how I ‘ship. Title courtesy of Explosions in the Sky. Enjoy.


	3. Your Hand in Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke makes it back from Mount Weather; Bellamy and Finn are waiting for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Housekeeping Note: this fic has expanded to four parts rather than three. I had to change the chapter names to reflect the change, but it doesn’t affect the overall trajectory of the story. Just means there’s more of it.

 

* * *

 

The first night is hard.

As a council member she gets her own tent – she’s relieved – she might be glad that her mom is alive, but it doesn’t mean that she wants to bunk with her. But she doesn’t want to share space with a stranger either, even after six weeks in isolation, so she smiles politely and thanks the young guard who shows her to her new home.

Finn fusses over her – _does she have enough blankets? does she need a glass of water?_ – and stands awkwardly by the exit when she declines his ministrations. He doesn’t say anything, but Clarke knows what he wants, can see it in the widening of his pupils, the way his eyes can’t keep away from the deep scoop neck of her shirt.

Clarke wants it too. She’s missed it, hands on her skin and lips slanting over hers, but it’s too soon. She’s only just come home, started to figure out who she is now. She isn’t ready to share herself with someone else.

She pushes to her feet and pads to Finn, lays a hand on his cheek. He turns into her touch, presses a kiss to her palm. “Not tonight,” she says. “I need some time to readjust, okay?”

“Of course,” he says, smiles into her palm. “We’ve got nothing but time.”

“Goodnight, Finn.”

He drops a gentle kiss on her forehead. “I love you.” 

It’s those words again, the ones he says so easily, words Clarke’s not sure she understands. She thinks of her parents and the way they looked at each other. She thought she understood love, but it’s betrayed her like everything else.

Finn doesn’t wait for a response, just promises to pick her up for their breakfast meeting before slipping through the tent flap. Clarke watches him leave, then studies the close confines of her quarters. There’s a bed, a small table and chair, a bin for storing her things. She drops her parka on the chair and toes off her boots, lies back on the mattress and studies the ceiling. It’s more a teepee than a tent, made of a thin animal skin and neatly stitched together with some kind of sinew. It’s the kind of shelter Native Americans built hundreds of years before the wars, and she wonders how the Ark survivors put it all together. She has a lot of questions about this place, wonders if she’ll ever get answers.

Sleep doesn’t come easy and after an hour of tossing and turning, she laces up her boots and tugs on the parka.

The moon is a golden sphere in the sky and she stops for a moment to watch the clouds ghost across its surface. It’s beautiful, haunting where the forest was soothing, but it still takes her breath away. There are so many things she’s remembering about this world.

She finds Bellamy by the fire, staring intently into the flames. He glances up as she wanders over and offers a small smile. “Can’t sleep?”

Clarke shakes her head. “A lot happened today. My brain won’t shut off.”

Bellamy chuckles. “I know what you mean. The second I close my eyes, planning the patrol schedule is the only thing I can think about.”

“Is that why you’re out here?”

“I have watch in thirty. Figured I’d just push through.”

Clarke frowns. “If you fall asleep on duty, kind of defeats the purpose doesn’t it?”

Bellamy smirks. “I’ll sleep when I’m dead.” 

Clarke sucks in a ragged breath. They’ve already been there; she’s seen him dead enough for one lifetime. 

“Hey,” he says softly, reaches out to lay a hand on her wrist. “You did the right thing.”

“I closed the door on you,” she whispers. She expects tears but instead a tight fist closes around her heart, sucks the air from her lungs and the heat from her skin. She shivers and burns all at the same time. There’s no taking back the things that she’s done. “I closed the door and left you to die.”

“I did the same,” he says. She can’t see his eyes in the darkness, but she knows him. He won’t lie to her anymore. “I wouldn’t send out a search party when you and Finn didn’t come back from the hunting trip.” He pauses, studies the ground. “I had to think about the greater good.” 

Clarke understands the greater good: eighty-two teenagers in her charge and all of them relying on her to keep them alive. In truth, it was never really a choice. Bellamy looks up and Clarke can finally see his eyes in the firelight, dark and warm and full of understanding. “It’s not easy being in charge,” she reminds him.

Bellamy laughs and then Clarke joins in, because it’s not really funny, the decisions they’ve been forced to make, but there’s no one else who understands the absurdity of their lives.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he tells her, keeps looking in her eyes. They’re still dark but heated too, and Clarke realizes he’s never let go of her wrist. His thumb is working small circles against her pulse and that tight fist around her heart lets go entirely.

“I’m glad you’re here too,” she says with a smile and he smiles in return. 

The moment doesn’t last – he has guard duty and she really does need to get to bed – but it lingers even after she disappears into her tent.

When she closes her eyes she can still feel the burn of his fingers on her skin.

 

* * *

 

They assign her to the infirmary.

Clarke finds out her assignment during the Council’s daily breakfast meeting, pauses in bringing a spoonful of mushy grain to her mouth when Kane announces her placement. She understands their logic. She _is_ Abby’s daughter, but it’s also the reason she’s willing to give up something she loves if it means avoiding the woman she’s trying to hate.

“There are over two hundred citizens in this camp,” Kane adds. “There’s no lack for work.” 

Clarke studies him, wonders how much he knows. She doesn’t remember him and Abby being friends, but she also never thought she’d see a two-headed deer. Still, she can read between the lines, the truce he’s trying to broker between mother and daughter, and she puts down the spoonful of porridge and accepts. “When do I start?”

 

* * *

 

Kane wasn’t lying about the number of patients. There are few serious ailments, but seemingly endless amounts of minor injuries. There’s a brief orientation with Jackson and a tour of the medbay and then a pretty brunette named Kendra is sitting on her table.

“How can I help?” Clarke asks and Kendra holds out her hand. There are callouses across the palm and open blisters on the heel. “Ouch.”

Kendra sighs. “Tell me about it. I thought I’d pitch in, but chopping down trees is killer on my manicure.”

“I’m sure,” Clarke says, turns Kendra’s hand to get a better look at the open wounds. They look painful, but they’re not infected yet. “What have you been doing?”

“We’re trying to elevate this place beyond a tent city. You know, real buildings? Maybe even a bathroom some day.” Kendra laughs. “Bellamy has this grand idea for some kind of Roman throwback, streets and houses and a market right in the middle.”

“Bellamy designed the camp?” Clarke reaches for a pot of seaweed paste and dabs some on the wound. She doesn’t know why she’s surprised. She’s seen his influence in the perimeter wall, the regular patrols and rations system. Of course he’d have a hand in creating their home.

“Yup. He built a model and everything.” Kendra smiles. “I like a man with a plan.”

Clarke doesn’t respond, just concentrates on tying the bandage around Kendra’s hand. She doesn’t know anything about Bellamy’s life here or whom he shares it with, isn't sure she wants to know.

“He talks about you a lot.”

The comment catches her off guard. She and Bellamy are partners, maybe even friends, but definitely not whatever Kendra is implying. “We ran the old camp together,” Clarke says flatly. She snips the bandage and ducks her head to check her work, but mostly to hide the flush staining her cheeks. 

“Uh huh,” Kendra says as she inspects her hand. “Whatever you say.”

“You can go back to work.” Clarke doesn’t mean for her words to come out clipped and it only brings a knowing smirk to Kendra’s face. 

She hops off the table, that smirk only widening. “Later, Doc. Thanks for fixing me up.”

Clarke waits a beat before seeing her next patient, rests her hips against the table and rubs her eyes. She tries to bring Finn’s face to mind. She only sees Bellamy’s smile in the firelight.

 

* * *

 

The Grounders arrive the next morning.

Lincoln leads with two hooded figures following in his wake, and so many things click into place: the food, the furniture, clothes and medicine and even the tents keeping them warm. 

“We’re allied with the Grounders?” Clarke asks Finn as their former enemies walk freely through the gate.

Finn raises a hand in welcome. “Lincoln has been helping us. We probably wouldn’t have survived this long without him.” 

There’s a loud whoop and one of the Grounders takes off at a run and launches herself at Bellamy. Her hood falls back to reveal dark hair and sparkling blue eyes and Clarke watches as brother and sister reunite. 

She lets out a relieved breath. She hadn’t wanted to ask about Octavia, missing from the dropship when the door slammed closed, and she’s so very grateful that she doesn’t have to mourn another person she loves. 

“Clarke!” Octavia yells, lets go of Bellamy and runs towards her friend. 

There’s a lot of hugging and laughing and mutual exclamations of “I’m so happy that you’re alive!” before Lincoln drops a hand on Octavia’s shoulder and reminds them that there’s more pressing business at hand. “We can hold the reunion later,” he says and Octavia detaches from Clarke and curls into Lincoln’s side. 

Clarke watches them as the group marches towards the Ark, the easy way Octavia’s head rests on Lincoln’s shoulder as his arm curves around her waist. It’s supportive, not possessive, the way he holds her up, how she leans into him. Clarke catches sight of Finn up ahead, talking animatedly with Lincoln’s deputy. She wonders if they’ll ever fit together that well.

Booted footsteps match her pace and Clarke turns to see Bellamy fall into line beside her. His jaw is tense and his eyes are practically boring holes into Lincoln’s back, but he hasn’t said anything in protest. “They’re sweet together,” Clarke says, tries to relieve all that tension. She’s afraid his jaw might crack if he doesn’t ease up. 

“I’m working on it. I know he’ll keep her safe, but it’s hard letting go.”

Clarke glances at him, sees the boy he was when his mother laid Octavia in his arms, sees the man he is without her, sees an entire life focused on one thing and now that thing has moved on. “Cheer up,” she tells him. “Now you have two hundred people to boss around.”

He smiles, just a small one, and Clarke has to fight to keep her face blank. “We’re going to be late,” he tells her and Clarke holds up a hand in a mock salute.

“Yes, sir, Councilor Blake.”

He shakes his head but the smile grows larger. Clarke ducks her head to keep him from seeing the same grin on her own face. 

The room is nearly full when they arrive, and Clarke slips in an empty chair next to Finn while Bellamy takes a seat across the table. There’s still the ghost of a grin on his face and Clarke watches for the change, his jaw to set and his eyes to narrow when he spots his sister, but his expression remains the same.

When he takes his seat at the table, he’s no longer glaring.

 

* * *

 

The alliance is tricky.

The Ark has the guns, but the Grounders have the advantage. They know the land and its secrets, have encountered the Mountain Men before.

Yet, the animosity that used to push them apart has been replaced with mutual need. Their leader is being held at Mount Weather along with the rest of Clarke’s people and they’re just as desperate to get her back.

“How did the mission go?” Lincoln asks once Clarke’s explained her miraculous return. He turns his gaze to Finn, and across the table Kane frowns and looks pointedly at Bellamy. He crosses his arms over his chest in response, but doesn’t say anything.

“Mostly as planned,” Finn starts. “There were ten guards on the perimeter when we tripped the alarm. Twice that many once it went off.”

Lincoln looks pained. “That’s more than we anticipated.”

“They’re green,” Bellamy interjects. “Barely cadets let alone real guards.”

It’s Finn’s turn to cross his arms. “They’re still guards, Bellamy. They have better weapons than us. You know that every life matters.”

Across the table Bellamy’s face turns to stone as his eyes flare to life. They’re dark and pulsing and for the first time since those ugly, early days, Clarke is afraid of what Bellamy might do.

She tries to diffuse the situation but Kane interrupts. “Finn, we appreciate your input, but let’s leave military matters to members of the Guard.” He turns his gaze to Lincoln. “You’ve encountered these people before. What’s your assessment?”

The discussion turns to how their combined forces can combat a better armed enemy, how they can leverage their limited resources to rescue their people. Both Bellamy and Finn are largely silent, but while Bellamy contributes the occasional comment, Finn fumes. 

He’s still seething when the meeting breaks. The Grounders agree to stay and train the Ark citizens in the finer points of stealth warfare in exchange for riflery practice. 

“I cannot believe what Kane said to me,” Finn complains as they walk towards the mess tent. Clarke nods along, exhausted after a long day in the infirmary and the extended council meeting. “Just because I wasn’t in the Guard doesn’t mean I lack an opinion.”

Clarke holds back a sigh. She knows all about his opinions, the ones he freely volunteers even when he conceals the most important truths. “He’s not known for his tact. My mom used to complain sometimes after meetings.” She stumbles, confronts the name she’s tried to hard to ignore, but Finn doesn’t seem to notice.

“And of course, he’s all about Bellamy. The guy washed out of of cadet school but he still knows everything.”

“Bellamy was in the Guard?”

Finn finally slows down, a frown curving his mouth as the conversation shifts. “Yeah, before they found out about Octavia.”

“No wonder he’s so good at being in charge.” Clarke remembers the beginning, the complete insanity of _whatever the hell we want_ , but everyone eagerly falling in line with one look from Bellamy.

“Sure, as long as there’s a war to fight.”

Finn sounds like a broken record, and it doesn’t help the flare of irritation bubbling up through her. He has no idea what it’s like to make the tough choices, to shut the door knowing it means certain death for someone else.

“It was a low blow,” she says, halts in her tracks so Finn has to face her. “You might not agree on strategy, but that doesn’t mean he plays fast and loose with people’s lives. You can’t…” She sucks in a breath to stop her voice from shaking. “You can’t accuse people of things like that. You don’t know what it’s like.”

“Hey, hey,” Finn says, rests his hands on her shoulders and pulls her towards him. “I wasn’t talking about you. There was nothing else you could do.”

She knows that well, the impossible choice she had to make, but it’s not the point. Finn’s never had to make one, doesn’t know what it’s like to close his eyes and only see the dead. There’s so much more she wants to say, but it’s not worth the effort when he’ll never understand. 

She pulls back and looks up at him, takes in the sweet planes of his face, wonders how something so familiar can seem so foreign. “Just go easy on him, okay?” 

Finn sighs. “I’ll try, but he drives me insane.”

Clarke pulls away and steps to his side to finish the walk to dinner. She spots Bellamy as soon as they arrive at the mess tent, laughing with a blonde girl in the firelight.

She grits her teeth as she takes her place in the dinner line. He drives her insane for completely different reasons.

 

* * *

 

With the Grounders comes a peace offering from her mother. 

They’ve been keeping to their separate corners of the medbay, Jackson running interference, but a few days after Lincoln and company’s arrival, Clarke arrives at her workstation to find her mother waiting.

Abby is pacing nervously in front of her daughter’s table, clutching a notebook in one hand while her eyes dart wildly around the room. She stops as Clarke approaches, skids to a halt in front of the table. 

“Hi, honey,” are the first words her mother has said to her in over a week.

Clarke crosses her arms over her chest and regards her mother from three feet of space. “What do you need?” 

Abby sighs and holds out the book. “Lincoln brought this for me. Please, take it,” she adds when Clarke doesn’t immediately respond. 

Clarke takes the notebook and flips through the pages. It’s filled with sketches of plants and jotted notes explaining their healing properties. “He gave this to you?” Clarke thinks back to the plague, wonders how many more lives she could have saved with this knowledge. It’s more valuable to her than anything else on earth.

Abby nods, points to the table. “He brought me a blank notebook too. I was going to copy it, but I think you might enjoy it more.” For a moment, Clarke disappears into her cell, her white, white room, the reluctant deals she struck with prying guards. This time it’s her mother, but the trade is no less devastating. 

“Please?” The catch in her mother’s voice is what makes Clarke hesitate, question the anger she’s been cultivating these long weeks. “I’m trying here.”

Abby’s eyes are teary, but her jaw juts out in the stubborn way that Clarke knows well. She’s not giving up until she has her daughter back. The memory of her mother’s arms lingers, at eight and eighteen, the way a simple hug could make everything seem okay. She’s not ready to give in, but some of the fight slips away. 

“Okay,” she agrees, picks up the blank notebook and case of charcoal pencils. Her fingers tremble with the urge to draw, to do so much good with what used to be a hobby. 

“Great,” Abby says and forces a watery smile. She stays an awkward minute, studying her daughter’s face while she decides what to do. Clarke stares back, forces her arms to remain at her sides. Finally, Abby holds out a hand and Clarke takes it, recognizes the determination in her mother’s grip. 

Abby squeezes her hand; Clarke squeezes back. It’s a long while before either lets go.

 

* * *

 

It opens a door, changes the shape of her day.

There’s the hour in the morning she spends copying Lincoln’s book followed by the early shift of patients. It’s mostly cuts and bruises, but eventually more critical cases trickle in, and it results with Clarke in Abby’s half of the medbay later that week.

“Everything okay?” Abby asks, looks up from the seaweed she’s mashing. 

Clarke bites her lip, contemplates how to proceed. It’s such a loaded question with so many possible answers, so she ignores the subtext and gets to the point. “I’d like to shadow you.”

“Oh?” Abby puts down the mortar and pestle, watches her daughter with hopeful eyes.

Clarke nods. “If I’m going to be a real doctor, there’s so much I need to learn. I’d like you to teach me.”

“Of course!” Abby eagerly agrees, excitement lighting up her face.

“I’ll start tomorrow then,” Clarke says, but she doesn’t leave. 

Instead she takes in her mother’s smile, knows she’s wearing the same one.

 

* * *

 

There are twice as many Ark survivors as there were juvenile delinquents, and they fill all age brackets. There are ten kids under the age of fifteen and the camp has pulled together to figure out how to educate them. Which is why Clarke is tasked with teaching them basic first aid, training them to treat themselves and take some of the pressure off the medbay.

She finds them in a field on the east side of camp, only fifty yards or so from the wall, but hidden by a copse of trees. 

They’re standing in a neat line watching Bellamy demonstrate some kind of a maneuver. He’s holding a stick in his hand and uses it to cut a precise arc through the air. “Your turn,” he tells them and the kids pick up their own sticks, try to mimic his movements as he walks through the ranks and critiques their form.

Clarke just stares, the sack of medical supplies abandoned at her feet. They may not be in space any longer, but they also don’t need to train a child army. She can’t believe Bellamy is repeating _whatever the hell we want_ all over again. 

She picks up her bag and stalks towards him, waits patiently while he adjusts the way one of the girls holds her stick. She can’t be more than twelve and her blonde hair is pulled back in an intricate braid. It’s suddenly too much, a pretty little girl with a knife in her hand, and she grabs his arm. “I need to talk to you.”

Bellamy squints at her in the sunlight. “Hello to you too.” 

Her fingers tighten around his bicep. “Now.”

He sighs, but doesn’t pull away. “Let’s take five,” he tells his students and jerks his arm free, leads her to the shade of a large oak tree. “What are you doing here, Princess?” he asks and crosses his arms over his chest. It’s a fighting stance, one she’s seen before, but she doesn’t back down.

“The better question is what _you’re_ doing. Training kids to fight? They’re children, Bellamy, not soldiers.”

“They need to be able to defend themselves.” 

“Which is why we have a Guard! Did you forget what happened the last time you gave a little girl a weapon?”

She regrets the words as soon as they leave her mouth, especially when all the emotion drains from Bellamy’s face only to pool in dark, burning eyes. It’s like the council meeting all over again, but worse because the accusation came from her. 

“Oh my god, Bellamy, I’m so sorry…I didn’t mean…”

She turns to him but he steps back, out of her reach. “I guess we know how you really feel.”

He turns on his heel and starts back towards the kids, but she’s faster than he thinks and tugs hard enough on his arm to spin him around. “Listen, please?” He glares at her, every freckle flaring angrily against his skin, but he doesn’t pull away. “I thought I saw you dead,” she says softly. She’s staring at the broad expanse of his chest, counting the loose threads in his worn jacket to keep from looking at his face. She doesn’t think she can take seeing hate there. “When we opened the door and I saw the bodies…I left a piece of myself there and I’m still trying to get it back.” She’s clinging to his jacket now, gripping it tightly between white-knuckled fingers, but he doesn’t push her away. “Charlotte’s death isn’t your fault, at least no more than it is mine, and I shouldn’t have blamed you. I just…I saw the kids and I remembered the cliff and closing the door, and just…I don’t want anyone else to die.”

Bellamy tilts her chin towards his face, stares down at her with those dark eyes that she could drown in. “You want forgiveness, Princess?” His voice drops, low and rough, as his thumb smoothes along her jaw. “Okay, you’re forgiven. You’ve punished yourself long enough.”

Clark stares into those eyes and her world narrows, grass and trees and the bright, blue sky fading into the striking planes of his face. “Bellamy…” she whispers, aware of how close his mouth is, how his eyes turn even darker and he angles his head towards her.

But they’re not alone, a mistake made more obvious when one of the kids clears his throat, and they spring apart, blinking rapidly as they find their footing. Wordlessly, Clarke gathers up her supplies and Bellamy turns back to his students.

“How’d it go?” her mom asks when Clarke drops the first aid bag on her table with a heavy sigh.

“I think it’s better if we hold the sessions here.” Abby doesn’t question her decision and turns back to a chart, but Clarke braces her hands against the table, tries to even out her breathing.

She makes the mistake of closing her eyes. All she sees is the heat in Bellamy’s.

 

* * *

 

They don’t talk about it.

Bellamy keeps a respectful distance and it’s like the moment didn’t happen. Clarke sometimes wonders if it was all a trick of light, her mind accepting the forgiveness she’s resisted for so long, except sometimes she’ll find him watching her across the council table or the campfire and her skin will flush from nothing more than his eyes on her, his mouth curving into that smirking grin. But he doesn’t try anything and her life fades into something resembling a routine.

There’s council meetings at breakfast and long hours in the medbay until sundown. She eats lunch with Kendra, laughs at her stories about construction projects gone tragically wrong, and takes her evening meal with Finn. They talk about their days and what’s new in the camp and most nights he curls beside her, kisses her deeply before they turn in for bed. He hasn’t pushed her, but she wonders why she doesn’t give in. She doesn’t remember much about that night, just the desperate feel of his hands tangling in her hair and his hips pressing her into the mattress. It was all raw and bleeding but there was comfort in each other.

She feels that same pull, the way he makes her feel safe and protected and not alone, but the frantic want is gone. Some nights she does little more than stare at his sleeping face and tells herself that it’s enough.

She ignores the way she remembers every second of that moment in the sunlight with Bellamy.

 

* * *

 

“I have a surprise,” Finn tells her one night, appears outside her tent carrying a torch. “You game?”

Clarke smiles and pulls on her parka. Things have been so busy lately, between working on her medical book and teaching first aid and Finn’s civic responsibilities; they haven’t had much time alone. “Can I have a hint?”

Finn laughs, starts for the gate. “Then it wouldn’t be a surprise.” 

Clarke follows obediently, doesn’t pull away when he takes her hand. She lets him lead her, doesn’t ask questions as they disappear deeper into the forest. After a half mile, he pulls out a strip of fabric and asks her to hold the torch. She doesn’t like the idea of not being able to see, but doesn’t feel like fighting either, so she takes the torch in hand and lets him cut off the light.

“Tada!” Finn exclaims and pulls off the blindfold. They’re standing at the lip of a steaming pool surrounded by bright torches. 

“Finn, what is this?”

“It’s a hot spring,” he explains, slips off his jacket and starts working on his boots. “I found it a few weeks ago.” He pulls his shirt over his head. “I was waiting for the right person to share it with.”

Clarke swallows hard as he works on his pants, shrugs out of her parka and makes a big production of unlacing her boots. He’s reclining in the water when she looks up, but his chest is wet and gleaming in the firelight. “Come join me,” he says softly, doesn’t take his eyes off her as she starts on her sweater. 

He keeps watching as she sheds the rest of her clothes, his eyes widening as she steps into the water. 

It feels heavenly, warm and bubbly and soothing to her muscles. “This is amazing,” she says as she slides down next to him. There’s a submerged rock that Finn’s used to create a bench and the smooth heat of the stone feels good against her skin. 

Finn laughs, deeper than usual, and drapes an arm over her shoulder. “Only the best for the Princess.”

Clarke knows he was the first to use the nickname, but it doesn’t feel right coming from anyone but Bellamy. She ignores it, rests her head on his shoulder like they did the first night in camp. “Thank you for bringing me here. I needed this.”

Finn picks up one of her hands, twines his fingers through hers. “I’ve been thinking…maybe we should move in together.”

“What?” Clarke tries to pull her hand away but Finn holds on tight.

“We spend most nights together already,” he points out. “We’re getting closer,” he adds, runs the fingers of his free hand down her bare thigh. “Why not?”

There are so many reasons: she likes her privacy, she has a reputation to maintain, _he’s not Bellamy_ , but she sticks to the party line. “I’m not ready.” She lays her palm on his cheek but he doesn’t turn into her touch. 

His face is blank, but there’s pain in those dark eyes. “Do you love me?”

“Finn…” Clarke starts, but his face breaks into the saddest of smiles and he shakes his head. She stops, blinks back the tears pooling in her eyes. She _does_ love him, just not the way he means.

“Do you love him?”

She wants to feign ignorance, pretend she doesn’t know what he’s talking about, but she cares about him too much to lie. “I don’t know.”

That sad smile doesn’t falter. “I think you do. That night at the dropship, you didn’t hesitate. The Grounders were coming and everyone could have died and all you could see was him.”

“You were the one who saved him,” she reminds him, hears the desperate note in her voice. Her life is just beginning to right itself; she can’t lose her only constant.

“For you!” he exclaims and lets go of her hand. He takes a calming breath and drops his arm, leans back against the rim of the pool to stare at the star-filled sky. “I saved him for you.” 

She tries one last time. “I care about you.”

He leans in and kisses her, hard and furious and filled with everything he feels. “I want more.”

There are tears in his eyes when he pulls away and they dress in silence, his gaze carefully averted as she slips into her clothes. He’s silent on the walk back too, but always the gentleman, he escorts her all the way home.

She makes it inside before the tears flow freely. Finn was never entirely right, but it doesn’t make it hurt any less to be left behind.

 

* * *

 

She finds Bellamy by the campfire.

He glances up as she approaches, drops the twig he’s been meticulously stripping of its bark. “Princess.”

“Bellamy.” 

There’s a ring of logs around the fire, but the temperature currently hovers somewhere just above freezing and no one else is out. She has her choice of seats; she takes the one directly to his left.

“Can’t sleep?” 

The truth is yes, she can’t sleep, hasn’t been able to sleep since that day on the training field when she drowned in his eyes. But it’s not why she’s here, two days after she broke Finn’s heart but realized the truth in her own. She inches closer to him, slides until she’s pressed up against his side. 

“Clarke…” he starts, but she ignores him, shifts so she’s peering up into his eyes. He looks terrified, his face entirely absent of its usual knowing smirk. “Don’t start something you can’t finish,” he tells her, but she just shakes her head and presses her mouth to his.

His fingers tangle in her hair and his mouth slants over hers and it’s everything she hoped it would be and more. 

She ignores her promise; she hopes it never ends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More “Sons of Anarchy,” hence the delayed update, but I’ve finally run out of episodes on Netflix and now have time to write. I’m also somewhat contemplating an AU fic where Bellamy is the tormented leader of a motorcycle club and Clarke his feisty doctor of an old lady. We can call it “Sons of Arcadia,” right? In the mean time, thank you for the support for this fic. I’ve enjoyed writing it and appreciate the feedback. Title courtesy of Explosions in the Sky. Enjoy.


	4. The Only Moment We Were Alone

 

* * *

 

Clarke wakes up tangled up in Bellamy.

He’s curled against her back, one knee tucked between her thighs and the muscled length of his forearms curving over her stomach. His breath puffs against her throat, soft and ticklish against her skin, and she holds in the shiver but lets out a smile. When he’d left her last night, this wasn’t what she’d expected in the morning.

She’d kissed him by the fire and he’d let her, hands cupping her face as he eased in closer, slipped his tongue in her mouth and pulled her flush against him. He’d been solid and warm even through the tattered layers of his clothes, and it had felt a bit like melting, the way her limbs turned boneless and her temperature rose several degrees just from kissing him.

He’d been the first to pull away, rest his forehead against hers as his breathing evened out. “My shift starts in five,” he’d said. He’d sounded annoyed, regretful too, and it made her only like him more, something admirable about a general mucking around in the mire with his troops. Not every member of the Council pulled guard duty.

“I’ll be here,” she’d said, smiled against his mouth then pressed a gentle kiss against his lips. She hadn’t wanted to make him late, but a small distraction wouldn’t hurt. He hadn’t returned the kiss and he’d dropped his hands to her shoulders to stare at her in the moonlight. “What?”

He’d shaken his head, and kept his hands on her shoulders while refusing to meet her eyes. “I just need to know. This isn’t to get back at Spacewalker, right?”

Annoyance had bubbled through her, because the last thing she’d wanted was Finn interrupting this moment, even if she understood it. Finn had been by her side from the moment she'd arrived on earth and until two days ago, there was no reason to think otherwise. “Bellamy,” she’d said and her tone had been serious enough for him to finally look at her. “This is about me and you. No one else.” 

He’d nodded, dropped a kiss on her cheek before shouldering his rifle and heading for the gate, and she’d gone alone to her tent and fallen into a restless sleep. For once she’d gotten things right but felt like she’d done everything wrong.

So when she opens her eyes and Bellamy is there, wrapped around her so tight that he’s almost a part of her, she thinks it might actually be working out. 

She shifts, because she’s losing feeling in her left arm, and Bellamy stirs as she flexes her fingers. “Morning,” he says into her neck, blows the hairs back from her nape; this time, she doesn’t hold in the shiver.

“Morning,” she whispers, snuggles deeper into the hard planes of his chest. 

It might be the best way to start her day.

 

* * *

 

She can feel Finn’s eyes on her. 

They’re watching – burning – when she leaves her tent. Bellamy had slipped out an hour earlier to meet with Kane before the Council’s breakfast session, but somehow Finn still knows.

Clarke can feel those eyes on her during their meeting too, especially when she comes in a few minutes before the start and slides into the only available chair. It’s to Finn’s right, her usual place, but there’s no easy smile waiting for her when she takes her seat. He tenses, shoulders tightening into a rigid line and he stares straight ahead. Out of the corner of her eye, Clarke watches his hands curl into fists.

It hurts. Wells’ death left a gaping hole in her heart and Finn had started to ease that pain. She knows she made the right choice, but she still misses her friend. She misses the notes he’d pass her during long-winded speeches or the honey he’d sneak for her porridge. She misses having someone on her side.

Across the table another pair of eyes rakes over her face and she glances up from her breakfast. Bellamy is watching her and while his expression is blank, Clarke can see everything she needs in those dark eyes. 

She might have lost Finn but there’s still someone who’ll always be on her side.

 

* * *

 

It’s not until late afternoon that they talk about it. 

Mission readiness has stepped up as the launch date approaches, and most of Bellamy’s day is spent training the combined troops. Finn stops by a few hours before dinner to discuss her supply request. It’s part of his job, managing inventory and the camp’s needs, and he has an issue with her order.

“You might be on the Council, Clarke, but even you don’t get a wish list.”

Clarke glances up from Lincoln’s sketchbook. She’s almost halfway done and working through a drawing of something called steeplebush. It has an intricate type of petal and she wants to get it just right before they begin medicinal collection in spring. She puts down her charcoal. “It never hurts to start with hello.”

Finn stalks over and all but slams her list onto the table. “I said necessities, Clarke. You know antibiotics don’t grow on trees.”

Clarke blinks up at him, anger swelling in her chest. She knows she hurt him, but that doesn’t mean she deserves to be treated like this. His expression is thunderous but his dark eyes are filled with pain. A stab of guilt replaces the anger. She was the one to turn this sweet boy into something different. “Finn,” she sighs. “That’s not what I was trying to do.” His expression doesn’t change and he crosses his arms over his chest, waits for her to explain. “I know how much you like to explore. Leaving camp for a few days to find medical supplies…I thought it would be a good distraction.”

Some of the anger slips from his face, but the pain in his eyes only deepens. “You know me so well.”

“You were my friend first. I miss you,” she says, grips the edge of the table to keep from reaching for him. 

He shakes his head and laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “You were his enemy and look where you are now.”

He’s right, the way she hated Bellamy and resented Bellamy and then needed him to keep it together. No matter how they started, something changed and there’s no turning back. “I didn’t mean for it to happen, but it did and it won’t go away,” she says softly, forces herself to meet his eyes so he understands the truth in her words. She’s not sugar-coating anything for him. “I don’t want it to go away.” 

Finn sucks in a breath and his eyes shine wetly in the muted light. “So it’s real then.”

“Yeah, it’s real.”

“I think…” He pauses, swallows heavily and finds his words. “I need some space.” He doesn’t give her time to answer and his shoulders slump as he walks away. 

Clarke doesn’t know which guilt is worse: the pain she’s caused him or how she doesn’t regret picking Bellamy.

She’s learned that lesson well: sometimes there is no choice.

 

* * *

 

She doesn’t see Bellamy for the rest of the day. 

One of the engineers falls from the roof of the new town hall and needs his tibia inserted back into his leg. It requires an operation too and Clarke can’t find it in her to feel guilty about being late. Bellamy isn’t going anywhere and the really interesting surgeries don’t happen too often.

She listens to her mother’s instructions, holds the blood vessels and inserts the clamps, and ignores the ache in her back from standing on her feet for hours on end. It’s well past midnight when she washes the last of the blood from her hands and wipes down the table. She hasn’t eaten since noon, but food is the last thing on her mind. She just wants to be in bed.

Bellamy isn’t there when she pokes her head through the door of her tent and she stops for a moment, breathes in the cold night air and debates what to do. They’ve set no ground rules, laid out no terms; there’s no expectation that he should be there waiting for her.

Except she remembers the look in his eyes when he kissed her goodbye, or watched her across the council table, and it feels like all the permission that she needs. She quickly runs her fingers through her hair and dabs mint paste on her tongue. It’s the best she can do on short notice. She takes a deep breath at the doorway to his tent before pushing inside.

Bellamy sits at the table fussing over a scale model of the camp. He has two small cabins clenched in his left hand and his chin propped in his right as he studies the arrangement of buildings. His hair falls over his forehead and with his freckles he looks about ten-years-old. It’s legitimately adorable and so unlike Bellamy that it makes her grin, but isn’t what actually catches her attention.

His shirt is drying over the back of his chair leaving his chest bare. His skin is smooth and golden in the firelight and she audibly gasps at the ripple of muscles as he reaches over to place one of the cabins behind the mess hall.

She can’t see more than his profile but there’s no hiding the slow smirk curving his lips. “Hey there, Princess,” he says, raises his head to look at her. She can only stare back, fighting to keep her eyes fixed on the handsome planes of his face. “Cat got your tongue?”

It’s the most cliché thing he could say, but it washes over her all the same, heat flaming in her cheeks as her mouth suddenly turns dry. She just nods, watches that smirk grow even wider. His eyes are darkening in the dim light, slipping away from her face to the zipper of her parka. They trail down her torso and she’s fully clothed but it feels like all those layers of insulation aren’t even there. 

Bellamy rises to his feet and pushes his hair back from his face, stares down at her as he takes up all the space. He reaches for her, fingers tangling in her hair, and her stomach growls so loud that she can feel it though the parka and sweater and t-shirt that she’s wearing.

Bellamy’s hands still and laughter rumbles through his chest, vibrates against her breasts as it bubbles up through him and he buries it in her neck. “Way to kill the mood, Princess,” he says into her skin.

Clarke frowns. This wasn’t how she’d wanted the evening to go. “Surgery took forever. I missed dinner.”

“Then let’s get you fed.” He pulls away and digs through his bin, pushes aside the model and lays out a spread of nuts and berries. “Dinner is served.”

There’s only one chair so Clarke shrugs out of her parka and sits cross-legged on his bed. She munches on her nuts while he straightens up, lines up his boots by the door and stows away his jacket. He doesn’t put his shirt back on.

“I’m impressed,” she tells him, angles her head towards the model. She’s seen the fruits of his labors in the camp that’s rapidly becoming a village, but the extent of his planning is still a bit awe-inspiring. “Where did you learn woodworking?” 

He shrugs, leans his rifle by the entrance. “We didn’t have many visitors growing up. Had to find a way to fill the time.”

“You’re good at it.”

He starts towards her and Clarke expects him to sit at the table, but he kneels behind her and rests his hands on her shoulders. “I’m good at a lot of things.” His fingers knead her tired muscles and she doesn’t bother repressing the moan. He laughs, digs the knuckle of his thumb into a particularly tight kink. 

Clarke closes her eyes, loses herself in the play of his hands moving over her. She can’t wait to see what else he’s good at.

 

* * *

 

Bellamy’s gone the next morning. The mission date is fast approaching and his team is practicing maneuvers in the woods for a few days. 

She didn’t think much of it when he told her. She’d literally been alone for six weeks; she could handle two days without him. And she does make it, setting fingers and bandaging blisters and treating colds, but she can’t avoid the niggling feeling that something is missing.

He’s dirty when he walks through the gate and already ordering his team to head to the meeting hall for a debrief, but her chest settles, something bright and warm blooming through her just from laying eyes on him.

For entirely different reasons, she wonders how she got by without him.

 

* * *

 

His hair is wet when he pokes his head through the flap of her tent and Clarke watches mutely as a bead of water slides down the strong chords of his neck.

He walks to her, slow and steady, takes her hands in his and pulls her up from the bed so she falls against his chest. “You say the word and I’ll walk away.”

Clarke has gotten good at showing him what she means and she cups his jaw in her hand, pushes to her tiptoes to press a butterfly kiss against his lips. “I want you.”

It’s all the permission he needs and he’s on her, hot and hard as they fall back on the bed. 

Her clothes are long gone when his fingers grip her hips, roll them against him so they’re both groaning. It’s almost there, the moment she’s been waiting for all this time, but she can’t have it without baring her soul too. She remembers the last time, the lies that spoiled something that should have been beautiful.

“I’ve only ever been with Finn.”

His hands still on her bare hips and he blinks up at her, falls back against the pillow and laughs. It’s pretty much the last reaction that she expected. “Raven said the same thing.”

It hurts, a pinching, stabbing pain that works its way through her chest and closes in around her throat. She can’t breathe and she wants to hit Bellamy and she wants to blame Raven, but she mostly wants to go back in time and stop any of it from ever happening. 

“When?”

She’s acutely aware that she’s straddling his hips and that they’re both _naked_ and she can feel him pressed up against her, but she can’t quite let the conversation go. Just once, she wanted something that had nothing to do with Finn. 

Bellamy sighs and runs his hands through his hair. “When you and Finn didn’t come back from the hunting trip. It happened once and it didn’t mean anything.” 

It’s Clarke’s turn to blink at him. She was kidnapped and threatened and Bellamy was having sex with Raven, just the way she was having sex with Finn when Raven was risking her life to find him. She was with Finn once and it meant everything and Bellamy isn’t holding it against her. She can’t blame him for doing the exact opposite.

The fight slips away and she mostly feels sad and defeated. “Were you ever going to tell me?”

“Were you ever going to tell _me_?”

“I’m telling you now.”

“So am I!” He takes a deep breath and runs his hands through his hair again, but there’s a hint of a smile when he looks back up at her. “This isn’t going how I planned it.” He shifts his hips, just the tiniest bit, and that smile lights up his whole face when she gasps. 

“Bellamy…” she starts because it feels unfinished. She’s not sure they can really move on.

“So things got weird for a minute,” he says, wraps his arms around her and flips her on her back. “I don’t care about what happened before.” He brushes her hair back from her face. “I only want you.” 

He keeps watching her and she realizes this is it. He’s giving them a fresh start; he’s asking her to do the same. “The past is the past,” she says, cups his head in her hand and drags his mouth to hers. 

He kisses her hard and hot and the familiar heat flares through her belly, burns away the memory of Raven and Finn and everything that came before. All she sees and hears and feels is Bellamy.

He slides between her thighs, murmurs into the sharp line of her clavicle. “Lie back and enjoy the ride.”

She does.

 

* * *

 

Clarke wakes up tangled up in Bellamy.

He’s molded to her back, one knee tucked between her bare thighs and the muscled length of his forearms curving over her breasts. She smiles and opens her eyes, turns in his arms so she’s pressed up against the hard planes of his chest. “Morning,” she whispers.  
“Morning,” he says against her mouth, pulls her closer and slides his hands over her skin so she’s shivering against him.

It’s by far the best way to start her day.

 

* * *

 

He stakes a claim at dinner.

Clarke is chatting in line with Javi, one of the guards from the Ark. They’re the same year and had some classes together, but they’re really just predicting if dinner will be venison stew or bear stew when Bellamy stalks over.

He doesn’t say anything, just glares at Javi and drops a hand to Clarke’s hip. His grip isn’t hard, but his stare is and everything about his body language says _mine_.

Javi glances between them and steps away. “Later, Clarke,” he says and practically runs to the end of the line. 

Clarke rolls her eyes. “Cut it out.” 

Bellamy huffs. “He should know that you’re off limits.”

Clarke steps back, out of his reach. “Unless you stop acting like a possessive asshole, it'll be the same for you.”

Bellamy swallows hard. “No one knows about us. I’m not going to make some kind of grand announcement, but I don’t want to hide. Do you not want people to know?” His expression is blank, but is voice makes it clear how scared he is of her answer.

Clarke steps closer, reaches out and takes his hand. “Our lives belong to everyone else. I just wanted something that was mine.”

He glances at their hands, twists his fingers so they twine with hers. “I didn’t mean to push you, but I spent my whole life keeping secrets. I don’t want to anymore.”

She’s had her own secrets, spent a year locked away to protect the secret her father died to keep buried. She doesn’t want that either. She wraps his arm around her waist, leans into his side as they step back in line. “Let’s start with dinner, okay?”

It’s venison after all, a little tough and very under-seasoned, but Clarke barely notices the food. She’s alive and the night is cool and she’s with Bellamy. There’s nothing else she needs.

 

* * *

 

Finn turns up the next day with five bottles of expired penicillin and a sheepish expression.

“I’m sorry I was such a pain,” he says as Clarke counts pills and wonders if they’ll kill people before helping them. “It’s not easy being dumped.”

Clarke looks up from the table and tries to keep from grimacing. She thought they’d already finished this conversation. “Finn…”

He holds up his hands in supplication. “I got the message. You’ve moved on and I will too.” In the past he’d stop and chat, tell her about his day and the problems he'd solved, but today he doesn’t linger. “See you around, Clarke,” he says and shoulders his pack, calls out over his shoulder, “Bye, Doctor Griffin. I’ll get that seaweed to you by tomorrow at the latest.”

Abby thanks him and waves goodbye, stands in the doorway with her daughter and watches the activity bustle through camp. Half the cabins are complete and the finishing touches are being added to the town and mess halls. Their makeshift camp is almost a real town. 

“He’s good for you,” Abby says, crosses her arms over her chest and leans into the doorjamb.

Clarke frowns. She and her mom can be civil, but the last thing she wants to discuss is her love life. “We’re not together,” she says, which is vague but also the truth. Whatever she and Finn were, it’s over.

Abby smiles. “I’m not talking about Finn.”

Clarke follows her mom’s sightline and spots Bellamy. He’s standing in the town square gesturing at a team of builders digging a well. It never fails to amaze her that he can be in so many places at once, that he’s so good at everything he does. 

“Mom…” Clarke starts, but really, what is there to say? I’m glad you like the guy I’m banging? She knows that Bellamy cares about her, but that’s as far as any kind of relationship talk has gone.

“He reminds me of your dad,” Abby says and it makes Clarke freeze, an icy shiver washing over her skin. It’s the only topic that’s strictly off limits. Besides, Clarke already knows that it’s a lie. Her father was a pillar of the community, respected and admired; Bellamy tried to assassinate the chancellor. “I wasn’t always married to the Chief of Engineering,” Abby adds. “Once, he was just a lowly mechanic from Mecha station. Your grandmother hated him.” Abby pauses, a nostalgic smile ghosting over her face. Clarke keeps her eyes focused on the floor to keep from drifting into the past. “She thought he wasn’t good enough for the daughter of a former chancellor, but I knew better.” Abby reaches out, lays a hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “Bellamy might not be perfect, but that’s okay. He does what he thinks is right and that’s the part that matters.”

There are tears in her mom’s eyes when Clarke finally meets her gaze and she’s a little blurry because Clarke’s also trying not to cry. Her dad died for what he believed in and Bellamy almost did too: Octavia was his world the way the Ark’s survival was her father’s.

“I really like him,” Clarke says and Abby’s watery smile widens.

“Good,” she says, wipes her eyes. “You deserve happiness.” 

Clarke looks at her mother, her familiar face and the tears they’ve both cried for the man they lost, and she feels more of the anger fade away. She knows something about making decisions that cost her the people she loves. 

“Do you want to join us for dinner?” Clarke asks, the words slipping out before she can really think about what she’s saying.

Abby’s smile brightens her entire face. “I’d love to.”

Clarke nods, pads back to her section of the medbay. She’s not ready to forgive but that doesn’t mean she can’t begin letting go.

 

* * *

 

Kendra becomes a constant presence in her life. 

Clarke doesn’t notice at first, because Kendra’s also her friend, but after a week or so she sees that Kendra is _everywhere_ : behind her in the food line, lingering by the well, causally walking with her from the council room to the medbay. 

“Stop following me,” Clarke says and pauses in her drawing of arrowroot. Across the room, Kendra stops swinging her legs under Clarke’s medical table.

Kendra sighs and rolls her eyes. “Talk to the boss man.”

Clarke rolls her own eyes and prepares for the fight.

 

* * *

 

She thinks it will be easy to have the upper hand when all Bellamy wants is her naked. She’s not entirely right.

“Why is Kendra following me?” she asks the moment Bellamy steps into her tent. She’s wearing her sweater and jeans and an expression that tells him not to bother touching. 

Bellamy sits on her bed and tugs off his boots. “She’s guarding you.”

“She’s an engineer.”

Bellamy slips out of his jacket. “She wanted a change of pace.”

Clarke folds her arms over her chest and ignores how he’s playing dirty. His sweater comes off next, followed by his t-shirt. She swallows hard and tries to keep her gaze pinned somewhere over his shoulder. “We already had this discussion. You can’t order me around.”

He pauses in working on his belt buckle and peers up at her from under his lashes. It’s a good distraction, except for the genuine worry in his eyes. “I need you to be safe.”

She fails in keeping from looking at him and walks towards him so she’s standing in the space between his knees. “I know it’s a difficult concept for you, but if we’re going to be in a relationship, you’ll need to acquaint yourself with this thing called compromise. I don’t need a full time guard.” 

Bellamy grips her hips and tugs her towards him so his face is level with her stomach. He rests his cheek against her, slips his fingers under the hem of her sweater. “Okay. You don’t need a guard when you’re in camp, but someone from my team is with you the moment you step outside the walls.”

His fingers slide higher, push the fabric of her various shirts up her chest so he can trace her bellybutton with his tongue. “Deal,” she manages to say.

He smiles against her stomach and before pulling back to stare up at her. “And we’re already in a relationship.” 

Clarke isn’t remotely ashamed by the dopey smile breaking across her face.

 

* * *

 

Octavia returns a few days later bearing sewing supplies. 

She had been reluctant to leave after the initial meeting, but the Ark survivors needed lessons in how to make fabric and needles and their own clothes, and Octavia was their only seamstress. Armed with supplies from Lincoln’s village, she's back for good. 

“Do you think this will work?” Octavia asks and holds up a shirt made of bumpy grey fabric. It looks a bit like the waffles Clarke once saw in a cookbook but the cotton is soft. It will serve hospital patients well. 

“Yes, great,” Clarke says and turns back to her own pile. All morning they’ve been sorting the scavenged clothes that Octavia brought and made good progress. Clarke thinks (prays) she might even score a second pair of underwear. “We really appreciate you doing this,” she adds. “I know it’s not an easy trip between camps.”

Octavia shrugs. “Lincoln’s village is my home but you’re my people. I miss you when I’m gone.”

“You could always come back,” Clarke points out. “Bellamy would love it if you were here.”

Octavia ducks her head, hides behind her thick curtain of dark hair. “Bell’s the reason I stay away.” 

Clarke feels that familiar flare of annoyance. Bellamy risked his life time and time again for his sister and this is the thanks he gets? “He would have died for you.”

“I know,” Octavia whispers, her voice so soft Clarke can hardly hear it over the rustle of fabric. She reaches out and rests her hand on Clarke’s wrist so she has to put down the clothes and meet Octavia’s gaze. “My brother was six-years-old when I was born. I love my mom, but she gave him a responsibility no child should have had to bear. His entire life was about me: protecting me, saving me…he needs his own life and we need to love each other without it killing us.” She pauses and smiles knowingly. “Besides, now he has you to boss around.” Clarke feels her cheeks turn red and Octavia’s entire face gleams with triumph. “I knew it! Even back in the old camp, I knew something was there.”

“It just started,” Clarke says. “It’s not even serious yet.” 

Octavia laughs. “Please. You have met my brother, right? He doesn’t do anything half-assed.”

It’s Clarke’s turn to hide behind her hair. “I know. It’s something, isn’t it?”

Octavia laughs again. “Good luck. He wouldn’t even let me go to the bathroom by myself when we first landed.”

Clarke laughs with her, even as the she realizes the challenge ahead of her. She’s ready for it, but there’s nothing easy about Bellamy Blake.

 

* * *

 

It gets serious fast.

It’s late and they’re in Bellamy’s tent and they didn’t make it to the bed. Bellamy is on the floor, back pressed up against the bed frame and Clarke is in his lap, legs locked around his back and arms wrapped around his shoulders.

He’s doing this thing with his tongue and his hips all at once and Clarke’s trying to say his name but it comes out on a strangled moan. “Bell…” she hisses and he seizes up inside her as the world explodes around her.

Later, they slip into the bed and she rests her head on his chest while he idly plays with her hair. His heartbeat is still an uneven, frantic pitch beneath her ear and she feels a smug little tug of satisfaction.

“I like when you say my name like that,” he tells her and it sounds casual, but Clarke knows him well enough to recognize that there’s deeper meaning there.

“Octavia calls you that,” she starts, waits for him to fill in the missing pieces.

Beneath her cheek, his heart beats even faster. “The people I love call me that.”

She pushes up so she’s looking down at him, brushes her hair back from her face so there’s nothing hiding the look in his eyes. They’re terrified like they were that night by the campfire, but so full of hope that it makes it hard for her to breathe. 

“I love you,” she says softly, watches the relief pool in his eyes. “I think I have for a long time but I wasn’t brave enough to say it.” She realizes it’s true, the way things changed after that night at the bunker, the way they built and swelled until she couldn’t imagine a day without him.

She kisses him, soft and tender, feels the love coming off him in waves. She doesn’t mind waiting so long when he can make her feel this way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I totally lied. This fic is now _five_ parts because this chapter got so ridiculously long that it needed to be split in two. I don’t think anyone will really complain. Again, thank you for the support for this fic. Multi-part stories are really hard for me, but I’ve really liked writing this one. So much that I can guarantee that this fic will be complete before NaNo because I promised multiple people that I would actually finish the novel this year. Title courtesy of Explosions in the Sky. Enjoy.


	5. Memorial

 

* * *

 

Clarke’s day begins and ends with Bellamy.

He’s there when she opens her eyes, wrapped around her, arms and legs entwined so it’s nearly impossible to tell which ones are hers and which ones are his.

She falls asleep with her head pillowed by his chest, one hand splayed over his heart.

The hours between are filled with mission prep, sketching maps of the facility on Mount Weather and preparing mobile med kits. The time ticks away and Clarke finds it harder and harder to breathe. 

Each morning, the raid draws closer; every night, she holds Bellamy a little tighter.

 

* * *

 

They get through dinner first. 

It’s a simple affair – mess hall fare – and all participants have to bring their own chairs, but Clarke still sprinkles pine needles across the floor of her tent and arranges the cones in a basket borrowed from Octavia. 

She keeps rearranging things but then Bellamy presses a kiss to her shoulder and the tension eases. “You can do this,” he tells her and she believes him.

Her mom doesn’t come alone. Kane tags along with her, hauling his own chair, and almost immediately launches into a strategy session with Bellamy. Clarke sneaks looks at them as she and Abby set the table and lay out the food. Their dark heads are bent together over a map that Kane brought and it surprises her, the closeness between them. It might have been his job, but Kane was the one to float his mother.

She glances at her own mother, worrying over the temperature of the stew, and wonders if it’s really that simple. But she also remembers her father’s words, pulled from the deepest recesses of her mind. It’s not about what Abby deserves, but she’s still not ready to forgive.

It’s written on her face, all the things she thinks and feels, and Bellamy looks concerned as he and Kane approach the table. She shakes her head, warns him to let it be, and pastes a smile across her face.

The stew is bland, but the meal is still a success. Clarke had given little thought to Bellamy’s role in the six weeks she spent at Mount Weather, but it’s clear that he’s built relationships with the Ark survivors. There’s an easy camaraderie between him and Kane, and Abby even offers a joke every now and then. Clarke mostly watches, takes it all in, the easy way these people can sit and talk and share a meal.

By the time the men clear the dishes, there’s nothing forced about the smile on her face.

 

* * *

 

One morning she bursts into tears while mashing seaweed. 

She’s hormonal anyway, but something about the neat rows of antibiotics sets her over the edge. She’s lost her people once; she doesn’t think she can go through it again.

“Clarke?” It’s her mom’s voice, soothing and calm, as she hurries over from her side of the med-bay. “What’s wrong?”

Clarke brushes away the tears and wipes at her nose. “I’m fine.” She’s can’t explain what she feels to her mom, not when Abby so willingly sent someone she loved to die.

Abby frowns, crosses her arms over her chest. “I’m here.” She pauses, unfolds her arms so she can cup Clarke’s face in her hands. “I’m always here, okay?”

Clarke nods, blinks back a fresh wave of tears. It’s not just her father that she wishes she could have back.

 

* * *

 

The mission launches soon after.

Clarke finds out during their regular breakfast meeting. With the addition of Lincoln and his people it’s a slightly larger group, but still only those in the know. She slides into her chair next to Finn, watches the relaxed flex of his fingers out of the corner of her eye, and smiles in relief. She doubts they’ll ever be as close as before, but it gives her hope that they really can be friends some day.

She already knows most of the mission details. Bellamy has discussed it ad nauseam over the past weeks, and as the only person in camp to set foot on Mount Weather, she’s been intimately involved. 

So it takes her by surprise when Kane doesn’t include her in final training session. She looks up sharply. “I think you forgot someone.”

Kane exchanges a look with Bellamy. Clarke doesn’t like the knowing way they’re looking at each other. “You’re not coming, Clarke.”

For a moment, she just stares, because they can’t be serious. She’s a trained medic, survived more than one battle, the only person who actually knows the mission site. Of course she’s coming. “I don’t understand,” she finally says. “This was a volunteer mission and I gave my name.”

Kane nods. “We need you here. Your request was denied.”

The anger flares up through her, burning her lungs as she struggles to even out her breathing: _she_ was held there; _she_ escaped from there; _she_ left her people there. She has to be the one to bring them home. “This is a Council decision – ” she starts, but Bellamy cuts her off.

“It’s a military matter,” he interrupts, his voice eerily calm. He avoids her gaze too. “Jackson has been participating in field training. He’s our medic.” 

He turns to Kane and begins discussing supply distribution while Clarke struggles to keep sitting straight in her seat. Beside her Finn is annoyingly triumphant.

 

* * *

 

She can’t confront Bellamy for the rest of the day. 

She has med-bay responsibilities when the meeting breaks and he’s leading training exercises in the woods. But she gets home first and paces around his tent while she waits for him, practices her speech with every circle she completes. It’s Octavia all over again, protection disguised as control. She can appreciate how deeply Bellamy loves, but she thought he knew better than to decide her fate for her.

She’s almost sympathetic when he finally pushes aside the flap and enters the tent. There’s a smear of dirt on his cheek and leaves in his hair and his eyes are thin slits that barely stay open. If it were any other night, she’d wipe his face clean and comb his hair and curl into his back until he fell asleep.

Tonight she just glares at him, ignores the weariness in his eyes as he shrugs out of his jacket. “You don’t get to make decisions for me,” she says, keeps her tone razor sharp as she stares him down.

He sighs and sits on the bed, shoulders slumping even as he bends to untie his boots. “Can this wait until I take off my shoes?”

She storms over and yanks them off herself. “I’m not Octavia,” she continues. “You don’t get to tell me what to do.”

“Like that ever worked,” he mumbles, but her sharp look keeps him from saying more. “Come here,” he says and pats the bed beside him. “At least let me explain.”

She owes him that much, to tell her why he did what he did, so she sits beside him but keeps a healthy distance between them. “Talk.”

“This isn’t about you,” he says softly, keeps his eyes trained on the floor. “I know you think I’m trying to keep you safe, but it’s bigger than us.” He pauses, drags his toe through the dirt while he finds his words. “The thing is, Clarke, I’m fine at giving orders, but you’re the one with the vision.” 

“Bellamy…” she starts, understanding where this is going. It’s the bunker all over again even though she can’t see the broken boy he was that night. 

He shakes his head, cuts her off, but does raise his head so she can look into his eyes. He reaches out and brushes his fingers against his cheek. “When we first landed, whatever I was building…it wasn’t anything decent until you came along. This is about the greater good. Our people can survive without me, but they can’t make it without you.”

Clarke stares at him, breath catching at the aching sadness in his eyes. “What about me?” she manages to say. “Why am I supposed to live without you?”

He leans forward, bends his head so his forehead rests against hers. “I’m not going anywhere, but if I do…they need you to lead and that means you need to stay.”

She’s crying again and it has nothing to do with hormones. “It’s not fair.”

He smiles. “Story of my life.” 

It’s the story of her life too, the princess who fell from her tower and hit every broken stone on the way down. If she knows anything, it’s surviving sorrow. But he does too, and she’s long stopped caring if it’s that grief that binds them together. She only knows that this life is easier with him, that her world is better when she has him by her side. 

His hands are slow as they move over her body, like they’re memorizing every curve and line, and even in the aftermath he won’t let her go. 

She’s awake long after he falls asleep, listens to his breathing even out and his heartbeat fall into a steady rhythm. Mostly she watches him in the moonlight, the straight nose and full mouth, the freckles dotting his cheeks and the messy hair that’s always falling into his eyes. She can’t believe she might never see this face again.

Clarke’s not sure she believes in god, but she believes in _something_ , Jasper’s and Finn’s recoveries feel like proof enough, and she’s never asked for anything but she _needs_ this one thing. 

“Come back to me,” she whispers into the smooth skin right above his heart. “Come back to me is my request.”

 

* * *

 

He’s gone the next morning.

He shakes her awake before dawn, smiles at her with watery eyes and kisses her goodbye, long and lingering and so tender it nearly breaks her heart. 

“I’ll be back in two days,” he tells her, brushes her hair back from her forehead and presses a gentle kiss to her brow. 

She manages a stiff nod as she watches the retreating line of his back. She hopes it’s not the last thing she ever sees of him.

 

* * *

 

Octavia is waiting for her when she arrives at the med-bay. 

It’s very early, before breakfast even, but she’s there all the same with red-rimmed eyes. Without a word, Clarke envelops her in a hug; it’s not just Bellamy out there, but Lincoln too. She can only imagine how Octavia’s holding up.

“I need to tell you something,” Octavia says while Clarke brews tea. She’s taken off her heavy fur coat and has her arms wrapped tightly around her middle. Clarke pats her knee, resists the urge to also literally hold herself together.

“Of course,” Clarke says and blows on her tea. She straightens medicinal bottles with her other hand, keeps her hands busy so her mind doesn’t wander.

“Put down your tea.” Clarke looks at Octavia strangely, but obliges, doesn’t protest even when Octavia takes her hand and flattens the palm over her abdomen. Her belly is a hard, rounded bump and Clarke’s eyes widen almost beyond comfort as she realizes what Octavia is telling her. “I’m pregnant,” she says, stares up into Clarke’s shocked eyes.

Clarke studies her friend’s face, tries to gauge her response. Octavia’s skin is an odd combo of pale, but glowing, and her hair is thick and shiny as it falls over her shoulders, but it’s the wide grin lighting up her face that lets Clarke in on how she feels. “Congratulations,” she says and Octavia’s smile only widens. “Does Bellamy know?”

Octavia’s smile doesn’t fall, but her forehead does knot. “No one knows, but with Lincoln gone, we felt it was important to let a healer in on the secret.”

Clarke spreads her fingers over Octavia’s belly. “How far along are you?”

“About four months.” That smile gets impossibly wider. “Lincoln says we’ll feel it kick in a few weeks.” 

“And you want this.” It’s not really a question, but Clarke asks it all the same. Octavia’s joy is written all over her face, but it’s necessary. The girl is sixteen-years-old and used to spend her afternoons chasing butterflies. It’s hard to believe she’s now tasked with another life.

Octavia bites her lip, twirls a lock of thick, shiny hair around her finger. “I was scared at first.” She turns her eyes to the floor, stares hard. “I wasn’t sure I wanted to keep it.”

“But…”

“But, babies are sacred to Lincoln’s people. Even though they survived the war, it left lasting damage. And I realized that family is all I know, it’s what I do well. I wish I were older, but I don’t regret it.”

Clarke takes Octavia’s hands in hers. “I’m happy for you.” 

“Good. I’ll need you when it’s my time. I don’t think Lincoln will ever touch me again if he has to watch our baby come out.”

Clarke laughs. “I can’t believe you’re having a baby.”

Octavia rolls her eyes. “Tell me about it. Only I would get pregnant the first time I have sex.”

“Really?”

Octavia laughs. “Lincoln’s a healer. He knows things. If you ever need something and don’t want to go to your mom…”

“No!” Clarke insists, ignores the way Octavia keeps laughing _at_ her. It will be enough for Bellamy to come home. She doesn’t need more.

 

* * *

 

Clarke spends the next two days trying not to drive the camp insane. 

She’s up before dawn and busy until dark, sorting and mashing and cleaning and copying the final drawings from Lincoln’s notebook; when she completes the last sketch, she sterilizes the entire med-bay again.  
“Here,” Finn says, slides a cup of tea across her table. “You’ll feel better.”

He’s taken supply orders from her mom, but made a point today of stopping by to check on her. It’s not exactly what she wants, but familiar enough to ease some of the tension. 

“Thanks,” she says, grips the mug tightly between her palms and focuses on the burn rather than think about Bellamy.

“That has to hurt,” Finn says, looks pointedly at the steam rising from her mug.

Clarke shrugs, ignores the sharp pinch when some of the tea sloshes over the rim. “They might be dead. I can take it.”

Finn sighs and takes the mug from her hands, rests his hands on her shoulder. “They’re going to be okay.”

Clarke stares at the floor, refuses to meet his eyes. “And what if they’re not?” It’s the first time she’s allowed herself to say the words.

“You’ll be okay. You were before,” he reminds her. “Six weeks you thought we were dead and it didn’t stop you. Even if you don’t want it, you’ve already proven that you can do it.”

He’s right, so Clarke tries to nod, but she only succeeds in letting more tears spring loose; she doesn’t protest either when Finn wraps her in his arms. 

Before he loved her, he was just her friend. She lets him hold her when she needs him most.

 

* * *

 

They’re a day late. 

It’s mid-afternoon and there’s been no cry from the gate, no victorious cheers filling the village. It’s only silence; even the birds have ceased chirping.

“It doesn’t mean anything,” Abby says as Clarke takes her pacing to the med-bay. “Maybe they needed the rest and got a late start.” Clarke stares incredulously at her mother. Bellamy and Kane are in charge. Oversleeping wouldn’t be an option. Abby shrugs. “You never know.”

Clarke wants to believe her, but she knows better than letting herself hope. She stops pacing and sits on her table. “I just want him to come home.” 

Abby comes to sit beside her, takes her hand in hers. “We all have people we want back.” She squeezes Clarke’s hand. “We just need to have a little faith.”

“You mean Kane,” Clarke says, doesn’t bother hiding the accusing tone in her voice. It’s just as uncomfortable discussing her mom’s boyfriend as it was discussing hers. 

Abby nods. “We’ve grown closer. He cares about me and I feel the same way. It’s not what I had with your father, but it’s good. We have a fresh start here and that means moving on.”

Clarke knows that Abby’s talking about more than a new relationship. She’s talking about the betrayal she sent into motion, the father she stole from her daughter. Clarke glances at her mom, the worn planes of her face and the weariness in her eyes, and she doesn’t see the same woman she knew on the Ark. She balances on the precipice, decides that it’s time to step over.

“I forgive you,” she says, waits a beat when Abby sucks in an audible breath. “I don’t agree with it, but I understand it.” She thinks of the dropship, the lives she saved while Bellamy and Finn died in its ashes. Too often her life is about the greater good. “I wish you’d made any other decision, but I can’t hold it against you any longer. I forgive you, Mom. I’m ready to move on.”

Abby wraps her daughter in her arms and Clarke holds on tight, buries her face in her mom’s shoulder and breathes her in. Even with the new smells of sweat and forest and winter air, there’s something familiar there, and it settles into her bones and tells her that everything will be okay.

“Well get through this,” Abby says when she finally pulls away. “You’ll get through this.”

“What if he doesn’t come back?” 

Abby smiles through her tears. “You’ll have me.”

Clarke hopes it will be enough.

 

* * *

 

The sun is just setting when Bellamy trudges through the gate.

Clarke is sure there are others with him, Jasper or Monty, Monroe and Miller, Raven and Harper and all the people she’s come to care about, but she doesn’t see any of them.

She just sees Bellamy, framed in gold in the fading light as he sets down his rifle and searches for her in the crowd. 

She’s always been private, held her cards to her vest and all, but today she wears her heart on her sleeve as she runs, literally runs across the yard and throws herself at him.

He crushes her against him, holds her so tight that her ribs threaten to crack, but she doesn’t protest because he’s here and he’s whole. He buries his face in her neck, presses his mouth to the column of her throat. “I love you,” he says against her skin.

“I need to breathe,” she reminds him and he loosens his grip with a laugh, but doesn’t let go. 

“I think you have something to say to me,” he tells her, stares down into her eyes.

Clarke frowns, loops her arms around his neck. “You’re late.”

“You don’t care.”

She kisses him, hard and hot and like there’s no one else around. “You’re home and I love you. I don’t care about anything else.”

“I missed you, Princess,” he says. “Let's go home.” Clarke lets him wrap an arm over her shoulders and guide her to his tent. 

Truer words have never been spoken.

 

* * *

 

All sixty-four delinquents make it back from Mount Weather.

It would be the greatest miracle of them all if not for the easy way Raven strolls through camp the next morning.

“Shark DNA,” she says with a grimace as she takes her seat in the council room. “I can walk. That’s the part I focus on.” 

Clarke’s about to respond when another woman takes the empty seat beside Raven. Anya looks different without the leather duster and face paint, but there’s no hiding the blazing heat of her eyes. “Clarke,” she says. 

“Anya. What are you doing here?”

“We planned the escape together,” Raven explains. “Who said enemies can’t turn into allies?”

The meeting starts before Clarke can ask more questions and the truth comes out anyway. Bellamy and Kane _did_ break into the facility, and they _did_ arm the prisoners, but rather than a ragtag group of delinquents, they found a well-trained army. Freeing them took little more than guiding the remnants of the hundred out the back door.

Lincoln seems relieved to have his leader back, but Clarke’s less confident. Anya might have made an alliance with Raven, but it won’t necessarily stand for the rest of them. She feels that familiar tightness in her chest. She can’t go back to what it was before.

“We need to discuss the prisoner,” Kane interjects and Clarke’s head snaps up, pulls her away from potential truces with former foes. Jordan is standing there, head bowed and wrists bound by thick ropes. 

“Oh my god,” Clarke whispers and her thoughts point to a different moment in her past, like the time she watched Bellamy drive a screw through Lincoln’s palm. It might have been who they were then, but it’s not who they are now. Across the table, Bellamy catches her eye but she can’t read the expression in his. She can only hope he makes the right choice this time. 

“My people will have much use for her,” Anya starts but Bellamy doesn’t let it get farther than that.

“This isn’t about revenge,” he says quietly. “We can’t afford another war, but we can’t ignore the advantage this affords us. In the old world, the Geneva Convention governed the rules of war. We’ll provide her food and shelter, medical care if she needs it. She stays to provide intel, nothing more.” He never raises his voice but it carries the needed weight. No one protests his decision and Finn takes responsibility for Jordan’s care while Bellamy and Kane handle her guards.

Clarke studies the tear-tracks on Jordan’s dirt-stained cheeks, the fear in her eyes. She wonders if what they’re doing is truly progress.

 

* * *

 

They wait a few days to celebrate.

There’s people to house, bodies to heal, and survivors to reunite with their parents. 

So a week later, as a full moon rises in the sky, they hold a party. There’s food and moonshine and even music. Clarke thinks it might be some kind of fiddle, but she doesn’t really care, loses herself a bit in the wail of the strings and beat of the drums. She remembers the last party, letting loose only to see the night end in blood. It’s the same people this night but with none of the horror.

Clarke tries to get Bellamy’s attention but he’s with Miller and there’s so much hero-worship in Miller’s eyes that she wonders if she’ll see him at all for the rest of the night.

“Cool party,” a familiar voice interrupts and Clarke manages to hold in the wince. She doesn’t want to do this now, or any time really, but especially not on a night like this.

“Hey, Raven,” she says and starts for Bellamy but is held back by the hand Raven rests on her arm.

“Stay a minute.”

Clarke sighs, but doesn’t pull away. “What’s going on?”

Raven kicks at the ground a bit. “So, you and Bellamy…” She doesn’t finish her sentence and Clarke again tries to find an escape route.

“Yeah, me and Bellamy.” 

“You seem really happy together.”

“We are.” Clarke knows where this is going, tries to stop the conversation in its tracks before Raven pushes too far.

“Clarke, I need to tell you something –”

“I know and I don’t want to talk about it.” The words are sharp and clipped, but Clarke still means them. This is the last thing she wants to discuss.

Raven finally looks up and her eyes are soft, but determined. “Fine, don’t talk, but I need you to listen. I had a lot of time to think these past weeks, and I realized this: I’d pick you too.”

“You want us to be friends.”

Raven nods. “I don’t care about Bellamy and I’m over Finn, but I like you.”

Clarke remembers the sharp pain that shot through her chest when she learned the truth about Finn. She understands lies, the poison they spread. She doesn’t have to like what Raven did, but she can’t hold it against her. “That would be nice.”

Raven smiles and Clarke smiles back and somewhere in the background the music starts up again, a quick rhythm that seems to flow through her. “Wanna dance?” 

Clarke nods, lets Raven take her hand and lead her into the throng. They spin and twirl and when Bellamy comes up behind her, wraps an arm around her and moves his hips to the beat, there’s no jealousy in Raven’s eyes.

Later, the music slows, a slow, mournful moan, and Clarke rests her head against Bellamy’s chest as he holds her close and sways. 

They’re still on earth but it might be the best night of her life.

 

* * *

 

It’s not long before Bellamy finds out about Octavia.

They’ve fallen back into old patterns as the village realigns and stretches to meet the needs of sixty-five more people, so Clarke is surprised when she pops by Bellamy’s tent mid-day to grab her beanie and finds him sitting on his bed and staring into space.

“Bell? What’s wrong?”

It takes him a moment to look at her and when he does, his eyes are panicked and wild. “Octavia’s pregnant.”

Clarke swallows hard. “I know.”

Bellamy glances up sharply. “You didn’t tell me?”

“She wanted to tell you herself.” She sits beside him. “It’s the only thing I’ve kept from you.”

He nods absently and doesn’t push back. It worries Clarke more, this detached response to a decent-sized betrayal. “She’s just sixteen,” he finally says. “She’s too young for this.”

Clarke leans into him. “She’ll be fine and you’ll be an uncle.”

He sags against her, rests his head on her shoulder. “Clarke, she could die down here.”

“Shhh,” she says, curls her hand into his hair and presses his face to her breast so his cheek rests over her heart. “Lincoln’s people have been delivering babies in the woods for a hundred years. They know what they’re doing and if they don’t, we have my mom. She’s going to be fine.”

She strokes his hair and rubs his back, reaches up and brushes the tears from his cheeks. He studies her for a moment. “I never…we didn’t…Clarke, could you?”

It takes her another moment to realize what he’s talking about, kicks herself a bit for the blush that creeps over her cheeks. She shakes her head. “I had my last injection when I was fifteen. We have two years, give or take a few months.”

“Do you ever think about it?” There’s an unreadable expression in his eyes, something Clarke thinks is fear but worries might be hope. No matter how much she loves him, she isn’t for ready for what he’s asking.

“We already have sixty-four of them,” she says lightly. Despite the presence of actual adults and some parents, it’s a rare day when one of the hundred doesn’t seek them out to solve some kind of crisis.

“I’m serious,” he says and when he looks at her Clarke only sees acceptance in his eyes. Whatever her answer, he just wants to know how she feels.

“I don’t know,” she finally says. They’re in a good place, but they’re still on earth. Tristan is still out there, Jordan’s people too, and she’s always waiting for the other shoe to drop. The last thing this world needs is more defenseless people. But then she thinks of the joy blooming across Octavia’s face, the excitement in her eyes and the tender way Lincoln cradled her belly after he walked through the gate, and she thinks she wants those things for herself. “But if I do, I know I want them with you.”

He smiles, devious and a bit relieved. “We have time to figure this out.” His fingers tug down the zipper of her parka, pull so she falls back on the bed. “Even better, we have plenty of time to practice.”

“It’s the middle of the day!”

He shrugs, slides his mouth down the column of her throat. “Practice makes perfect.”

Clarke just laughs and pulls him in for another kiss.

 

* * *

 

Jordan becomes a problem.

She agrees to talk, but her intel isn’t anything Clarke hasn’t already shared.

“You need to work with us,” Finn tells her. Clarke watches from across the room. She’s technically there to keep an eye on Finn, but it’s _Finn_ and she mostly mashes more seaweed paste and enjoys the role reversal.

Jordan pushes her hair out of her eyes. “But I don’t know anything else! I just interview the patient. It’s Dr. Saar who runs the data.”

Finn sighs. “We need to let her go.”

Clarke pads over. “You know that isn’t an option. She’s our leverage to keep them from kidnapping us again.”

“Maybe, but this isn’t right.”

Clarke crosses her arms over her chest. “She’s fed and has a place to sleep. She might not be as clean as before, but none of us are.”

Jordan glares up at them. “You can stop talking about me like I’m not here.”

Clarke glares down in response. “Sucks, doesn’t it? Being trapped?”

Finn steps between them. “This isn’t helping.”

Clarke turns to him. “They held me captive for six weeks. They let me think that you were dead. They knew everything that happened on the Ark. They knew what happened to my dad and they never bothered to stop it.” It hits her like a flood, the rage and grief and regret and hate, and when she looks at Jordan all she sees is red. “You don’t deserve to live.” Her hands creep forward, reach for the pulsing length of Jordan’s neck.

“Clarke!” 

Finn grabs her arm and pulls her away. “What’s wrong with you?”

Clarke takes a deep breath but she doesn’t feel calmer. She feels sad, the weight of all her mistakes closing in around her. “I need some air.”

 

* * *

 

Bellamy finds her by the hot springs. 

Jasper and Monty found it not long after their return and it’s no longer Finn’s secret place but the spot where people can finally get a bath. It’s freezing outside, but the water is hot and soothing against her skin. Submerged to her neck, she almost feels like she can breathe.

She hears him before she sees him, the clomp of his boots breaking through the stillness of the clearing. “How’d you find me?”

He stands at the lip of the pool and studies her. “Spacewalker told me.”

“Really?”

“He’s your friend, right?”

“Yeah, I guess.” Her train of thought is abruptly cut off when Bellamy starts taking off his clothes, jacket and shirt and boots and finally his pants, and he stands there, hands on his hips while he waits.

“Can I come in?” She swallows hard but manages a nod and he solemnly steps into the pool. He hisses slightly as he adjusts to the temperature, but pushes through. He slides down next to her then tugs her into his lap, spreads her thighs so they bracket his hips and her breasts slide slickly over his chest. “What’s going on, Princess?”

They’re wet and naked, steaming water washing over their skin, but she can’t keep her lip from trembling. “I wanted to kill Jordan.”

“Half the time I want to kill Spacewalker, but until I actually do it, it’s just a pipe dream.” 

“You don’t get it. It was just me and Finn and all I could think about was wrapping my hands around her throat.” She pauses, closes her eyes. “I’ve done it before. I know how easy it is.”

“I was there, he says softly. “What you did for Atom was a gift.”

She shakes her head. “No, you weren’t. I killed a grounder to escape Anya. I was laughing with him about his bum knee and a second later I was slitting his throat. I could have knocked him out. I could have kicked that knee, but I didn’t. I took a scalpel I’d used to try and save a little girl’s life and I let him bleed out. I almost did the same thing tonight.”

Bellamy is silent for a long while and Clarke cringes, waits for him to push her away. “Do you remember what I told you after the hurricane?” Clarke remembers those words, how they justified every choice she had to make.

“Who we are and who we need to be to survive are two very different things.”

“I was wrong. Every choice we make, it’s who we are.” He props a finger under Clarke’s chin and turns her face to his. “The important part is that we don’t make those mistakes again.” He smiles at her, shifts his hips so she gasps. “Killed anyone lately?”

She swats at his chest but there’s no anger in it. “You’re an idiot.”

“Look where we are, Princess.” He gestures around them, the whispering woods and glowing moon, the stars glittering on the face of the pool. “Did you ever think we’d have any of this? It’s a whole new world down here.” His fingers slip under the water and her gasp turns into a full-fledged moan.

“A bright shiny future?”

“A bright shiny future.”

Clarke raises her hips, slides down around him. The stars explode around them.

 

* * *

 

Dr. Saar pads into camp a few days later, with six men and twice as many guns.

Bellamy watches them warily but without fear. He’s left the council in the weeks since the mission to Mount Weather, but runs their security forces as Kane’s second in command.

“State your business,” he demands. Clarke watches nervously from the doorway of the med-bay, doesn’t take her eyes off all those guns.

Saar crosses his arms. “You know why we’re here.”

Bellamy shrugs but doesn’t take his finger off the trigger of his rifle.

Saar looks annoyed but forces a pained smile. “You have one of our people. We’d like her back.”

Bellamy shrugs again. “That’s a matter for our Council.”

Saar’s face twists as impatience sets in. “Take me to your Council then.”

Bellamy makes a motion and their forces appear on catwalks and from behind buildings. Lincoln’s people have returned to their village, but Clarke’s people still have their weapons and know how to use them. Spears and arrows are aimed and ready to be thrown with pinpoint accuracy. “Put down your arms and we’ll see if we can come to an agreement.”

Saar looks like he doesn’t understand what’s happening, the people from the sky overtaking the rulers of the earth, but doesn’t protest. If Clarke didn’t know better, she thinks he might even be proud.

 

* * *

 

In the end, it’s Clarke that secures peace for her people.

Anya is there for the Council meeting and encourages war, while Finn pushes for unilateral peace. He wants to release Jordan even if it means they get nothing in return; he just wants this fight to be over.

Clarke sits quietly and contemplates the conversation, wishes Bellamy could be there with her. But he isn’t, so she plays his words in her head, ponders the choice she needs to make. There’s no easy answer but there needs to be resolution. She can’t shut another door on her people.

“Enough!” she says, loud, but not obnoxiously so, and the table quiets down long enough to look her way. “This needs to end.”

Saar leans back in his chair. “You have a solution?” 

Clarke rises to her feet, feels her father’s hand on one shoulder and her mother’s on the other. She lets the greater good decide. “I propose this: you continue your experiment. You can interview us, even test our blood, but you do it on our terms.” She turns her eyes to Jordan. “She stays with us and runs the study. She can leave as needed to deliver her data.” She holds up a hand as her people start to protest and lays out her terms for Saar. “In return, you stop kidnapping us. You give us food, clothes, medicine and weapons. You help us survive here.” She turns to Anya. “I know how to end this war: we work together to build a new world.”

Saar watches her, flicks his eyes across her face. “I might have underestimated you.”

“This is ridiculous!” It’s Roger, the engineer from Mecha Station. “No way I’m going to let them probe my head!”

“It will keep us alive,” Finn says. “Tristan is still out there and we’re better prepared but we can’t fight a war on two fronts. It’s not ideal, but it works.” He looks at Clarke with so much admiration in his eyes that she has to look away. He calls for a vote and it’s not unanimous, but enough for the motion to pass.

Clarke turns to Saar. “Deal?”

He sighs but nods. “Deal.”

 

* * *

 

It’s a long time before Clarke makes it to Bellamy.

The meeting feels endless as they hash out trade terms and Jordan’s stay, but when the last of Saar’s contingent finally leaves, Bellamy is waiting for her at the gate.

“Well?” He asks, slings an arm over her shoulder.

“I think I saved the day.”

He leans in and kisses her. “You always do.”

She believes him.

 

* * *

 

Octavia’s son is born in early spring, as the first bits of green break through the softening earth.

He has a cap of dark hair and bright blue eyes and he’s quite possibly the most beautiful thing Clarke has ever seen. She made it to the village for the birth, and while she was barely needed, she knows Bellamy felt better having her there.

Octavia is exhausted, but alive, and Bellamy finally pries himself from her side long enough to hold his nephew.

“He’s so tiny,” he says to Clarke as she adjusts the baby’s head. 

“Support the neck,” she tells him but mostly can’t take her eyes away from Bellamy holding a baby. 

“What’s his name?” she asks Octavia when she’s confident Bellamy won’t drop his nephew.

“Pax,” Octavia responds, leans into Lincoln’s side to watch her brother hold their baby. “It means – ”

“Peace,” Bellamy interrupts, wraps his free arm around Clarke’s waist. She leans into his side, rests her head on his shoulder to study this latest miracle.

“Hi there, Pax,” she whispers and Bellamy presses a soft kiss to her temple. 

She closes her eyes. The future has never seemed brighter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the support for this fic. I've so enjoyed writing it and am really proud for having finished it! Other random tidbits: Yes, this fic includes a "Cold Mountain" quote, and maybe one from BSG too. I couldn't help myself. I channeled the scene in "The Last of the Mohicans" when Nathaniel and Cora succumb to Daniel Day-Lewis' hotness for the fiddle music. Title courtesy of Explosions in the Sky. Enjoy.


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